The Man of Her Past
by Alone in a New Place
Summary: Murrue lost Him to the rage of war. When Mu came along, she was finally able to love again. Now, in the Peace after the fighting's been done . . . He comes back. ['Him'xMurruexMu] A request on the verge of being fulfilled.
1. Flowers

Hey, y'all! Just got back from a two week vacation that made my mind open up and let the writing flow . . . so I'm working on a lot at the moment.--Many different stories with many different subjects. So, dont worry.

At the moment though, this will probabaly be my only chaptered fic. It's another request, this time from Skywolf666 who asked for it a while back. In Sky's words: _"What would happen if Murrue's old boyfriend came back and tried to break Mu and Murrue up?"_ But, of course, with me writing it, it's always a bit more . . . "twisted" than it should seem. . . . Remember, Sky. If at any point you absolutely despise where this is going, tell me, 'kay? Got that?

This takes place after SEED, in Orb and if Mu didnt die in the previous war. --Sorry if this seems a bit short. More will be up _**soon**_, I _promise_.--

* * *

**Chapter One**

Slowly he opened his eyes, finally aroused from sleep. The surrounding warmth of the comforter was too lulling as he stretched himself as far as he could in bed. Habitually, he held in that moan of release as every muscle of his pleasantly came into position after a long rest.

Lazier than ever, it seemed, Mu didn't want to move, just to go back to sleep in the empty cushion—even though the sun that shown through the window lit up the entire room cheeringly bright.

When the smell of fresh coffee reached his nose . . . his face screwed up. Confused, Mu growled in annoyance as he pulled himself up and across the room. He opened the closed door, the blinding light of morning forcing him to grimace.

Once he could see again, it wasn't difficult to recognize the curvy brunette from his dreams standing before him.

"Murrue?" he grumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes, yawning the rest of the way. "What are you doing here?"

"This is _my_ house, remember?" She returned lazily, taking a sip of the coffee he'd smelled earlier. Mu ran his hand though his hair at the response, glancing around, not surprised at the different surroundings.

With a shrug he turned back to her.

"I should be the one asking _you_ that question," Murrue continued, harshly, but unable to control her smile. "—except . . . I already know the answer."

"_Do_ you now?" he asked her, coming closer, eyes dancing with his same roguish grin. "Care to share your insight?"

"No," she clipped. "All I need to know is what you want for breakfast."

"_Breakfast_?—Come back to bed and get some more sleep, Murrue," he huffed, pulling her close to him. "It's too _early_ for breakfast."

"'Too early'?" she giggled as his lips brushed her cheek. "_Mu_, it's 10 o'clock. It's late. . . ."

"It's _Ten_?" Mu stumbled, arms falling from her. "—_Seriously_?"

"Yes.—What—?"

"_I'm_ late!" He practically sprinted back into Murrue's room. Clumsy in his quickness, she could hear every hard plod of his feet though the door was closed.

"Late? Late for what?"

"Work! I have to go in today!" He yelled from inside. Murrue's face screwed up.

"What do you mean, Mu? You told me your vacation started today."

He stepped out for only a moment to answer her—suddenly dressed from the waist up, his hair a mess.

"It _does_. . . ." He whined. " . . . _After_ work." Mu disappeared once more, causing Murrue's face to fall even farther.

"But I thought we would—"

He stepped from the room again, this time with his shirt pulled on. Slowly he buttoned it, face drawn as he stared somberly at the woman before him.

"But you thought we would be together today since we did so much to make sure we got the same time off—I know. . . . I made a mistake. . . . I'm sorry."

Slower than the other times, Mu turned to pull himself back to her room. When Murrue was alone once more, she quietly whined to herself:

"Do you really _have_ to go in?"

The warmth that had bubbled itself around her heart at the thought of 'him and her' was quickly slipping away to coldness.

Mu came from her room—this time fully clothed. He opened his arms out wide, face darkening as he looked down at his slightly wrinkled outfit.

"Presentable?" He asked, wryly. "I don't have enough time to get home and change. . . ."

Murrue paused to let her eyes drift down the man in his day-old clothes.

"Yes. It's fine," she smiled, but Mu could easily see how half-hearted she was. He trotted across the kitchen towards her. Without permission, he encircled his arms around her from behind and began to softly nuzzle against her neck.

"I'm really sorry. . . ."

"Oh, just go, Mu," she giggled, his thick hair tickling her skin.

The fire beneath him was lit once more, the thick man jumping from his girlfriend and racing to where he'd dropped his shoes. Hopping to get them on, Mu flashed a grin at Murrue.

"Don't worry. I'll make it up to you _tonight_.—Dinner at my house okay?"

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "And who's cooking?"

"Um . . ." He forced a laugh as his voice became small. ". . . You?"

No answer was needed—just a glare—before he stood straight and shrunk back.

"Hey!" He glowered, fearfully putting up his hands. "Remember the _last_ time I tried? I seem to recall a certain black smoke . . . and an airing out of _your_ house that took days.—You don't want _me_ to have to go through that, do you?"

Murrue narrowed her eyes darkly before retuning to her coffee. Mu swallowed in the silence—it was always worse than anything. But then they both began to laugh together, as if nothing had been said—the two never able to hold it in for long.

Mu, shoes completely on, playfully made his way over to Murrue once more and leaned in for his good-bye kiss but was stopped in his endeavor. He began to pout at his punishment as Murrue's stern voice filled the kitchen.

"Part of me wants you to burn your house, Mu. Then, maybe, you might learn a little more every-day responsibility—like . . . not being late for example."

"Gah!" Mu remembered—and was almost out the door in a flash. That is, before swinging around to get his kiss once denied. With a winning wink, he finally left, leaving Murrue behind in a frozen blush.

---

The door of Murrue's house closed behind him, and outside, alone on the porch, Mu chuckled at his morning performance. Slowly stepping down to make his way to the street, he paused in his tracks.

Deep inside the pocket of his coat, Mu's hard fingers softly traced the small, velvet box hidden there. He shook at his head, face twisted up in playful wonder.

"When will I ever . . . ?"

--------------------

Back inside her house, Murrue was caught gently smiling. Her eyes danced over the small blue ring of keys—his. He had forgotten them in his hurry, and it wasn't even the first (or even the second) time.

Mu was Mu—and it seemed like he would never change.

She could wait until the next day, when he really was on vacation, to do all the things she'd wanted to do with him for a while. Holding back a blushing sigh, Murrue's eyes drifted out the window of her small home. It was impossible to believe—how short a time of peace she'd had with him, yet how long it had felt already. . . .

The phone rang, but its shrill call came several times before Murrue even made the steps towards it. Picking it up, Murrue was still smiling.

"Hello?" she answered, that smile shining through in her voice.

"Murrue?" The voice on the other end was quiet and weathered, but young. The voice had a certain strength that oddly seeped through every wavering word. While it contained a smile as well, it was airy and pressed, a certain coldness yet warmth that fended off all other emotion.

Murrue felt her whole body quiver at that voice: that terrible, kind, loving song. The hold in her knees threatened to break just as the strong hold she had on her eyes.

"Murrue? You there?" The voice ventured again. There was a pause long enough for Murrue's stifled breath to be heard.

"Murrue . . ." the voice coaxed, holding back a small laugh at her silence. "_Please_ say something. I need to hear your voice." It faltered, weakening—Murrue's heart weakened with it. "You have no idea . . . how much . . . I _need_ . . . to hear your voice."

She weakly fixed her grip, hand shaking in the fumbling. There was no doubt he could hear her breathing then.

"Murrue . . . I know you're listening. . . . I need to speak to you. You and I both know this sort of thing can't just be discussed over the phone." The voice swallowed. "It has to be in person. I need to _see_ you, Murrue. . . ."

"—No."

She had finally found the voice her breaths had been searching for. But this voice . . . was not one of a former captain . . . it was weak and shaking.

"No," she muttered again, slightly stronger.

"What . . . ? _Murrue_—"

"There's no way," she breathed. ". . . There's no way . . . this could be you." She swallowed, gathering even more strength to add to her tone as the beginnings of tears started to silently flow. "I'm sorry. . . . I'm sorry."

Murrue could hear the beginnings of the man's retort, but she let the receiver drop all the same.

"There's no way. . . ." She muttered again, but the words stabbed at her. Even though 'there was no way' . . . Murrue could never _not_ recognize that voice—never _not_ know that voice with every bit of her being.

Her forgetting was the _real_ 'no way'.

Unable to hold onto her strength any longer, Murrue collapsed into the couch as she bit back a cry at the pain.

--------------------

"Girlfriend?"

The man tore himself away from the flowers to stare up at the taller man beside him. Wearing a knowing grin, Mu looked over at who was staring back. He could just make out the man's amber eyes upon him, for it was a bit hard to see out from behind his own wind-tossed blond. Smoothly Mu pushed his hair back and smiled again.

It was funny to Mu . . . how easy it was to read the stranger's eyes—and how awkward they seemed, staring back.

"You . . . could say that," the man finally sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets. Mu leaned forward, head cocked a bit, as if trying to see into the man's face again, obviously waiting for more.

The man faltered for more satisfying words. "We . . . _had a fight_ . . ."

"Ahh, got it!" There was silence for a moment, he watching as the blond bent forward to check out one of the colorful bouquets. Standing up, Mu ran a hand through his hair. "Well, it happens to the best of us, eh?"

"I—I guess so." The stranger turned away. "It's _more_ than that though. . . . Flowers wont work at all, but . . ." His face screwed up at the thought.

"You feel obligated," Mu cut in, voice dark with understanding. "Oh, we all have those days. Nothing you can really do about it.—So . . . Tell me about her."

"_What_?" The man's attention suddenly caught on Mu's casual directness—and that left him gaping. Mu just grinned at the attention.

"Flowers don't work, yet we still feel the need to spend our money on 'em," he chided. "—But that's no reason to not choose the best ones for her, eh? _Tell_ me about her," Mu offered to the man. "An' I'll help you pick one out.—I've got a knack for these things, you know."

"Why would you go out of your way to . . . ?"

"Hm?" Mu raised an eyebrow and paused, thinking the answer himself. His eyes flashed down to his coat pocket, where his fingers were fumbling around. He took the box out, flicked it open, then snapped it shut in a matter of movements. Looking back up to the man before him, Mu grinned. ". . . I'm in a good mood today."

Even though it were only for a moment, John saw the small flash of the box and the diamond inside. He grinned back, knowing exactly what made this stranger so bouncy.

"Name's John Anthony," he grinned, extending his hand friendlily—which Mu shook, quite forcibly.

"Is it really?—Well, John, if you'll excuse me, we should probably get started on picking this bouquet of yours . . . since I should really be getting to work," Mu winked, hands full. "—Which is where she _thinks_ I am. Understand?"

All the man could do was nod at this still unnamed, still un-categorizable, still grinning, blond stranger.

The two grown men stood in the Flower Shop talking as the minutes rolled by. Mostly John talked of his nameless love while Mu listened intently, laughing and grinning, as he walked around the store with its singular flowers and its bunches of bouquets. Finally, Mu stopped him, holding up his hand with a grin.

"How about blue . . . ?" He wondered aloud, fingers touching at his chin. As the man looked on, Mu reached out, running his touch along a tall blossom he didn't know the name for. Oddly it seemed to match his eyes in color.

"For your sweetheart? Blue? Like this one?"

Mu thought again and ventured cautiously. "To me, nice-looking blue flowers are a rarity, but they seem like they'd fit _her—_at least . . . from what you've told me." Mu broke out into a couple deep chuckles. "So, now, tell me, how wrong am I? Completely?—or indescribably?"

John stared on, amber eyes wide and looking back, dawning rising in his younger-than-true face.

"No . . . you're _right_," he muttered moving closer to grasp the plant. "I never made the connection before, but . . . blue _is_ the perfect color for her. . . . It makes a ot of sense actually.—Thanks so much."

Mu grinned. The smile on the stranger's face . . .

_Ahh, young love. . . .—Wait—He is . . . **younger** than me . . . right?_ Mu faltered—blinking—stunned.

That grinning voice of John's pulled him back to reality: "Your bouquet is nice too, though." Mu followed the man's gaze caught to the flowers in his hand. "_Roses_ . . ." he muttered.

Mu chuckled, hand running through his hair.

"Yeah. . . . May be a bit old fashioned, but . . . They're still perfect."

Mu did not grin at the thought, but smiled that warm sigh of his.

John, eyes catching on the emotion, flicked his attention back to his own pile silently, and then crinkled his face over his own assortment.

"Too bad blue roses are only in dreams. . . ."

"Oh, really?" Mu laughed, finally walking up to the counter, other man beside. "I didn't know that.—Learn something new everyday, it seems."

The younger man glanced back to the roses in Mu's thick hands.

"What about you?—_Girlfriend_?" He asked, eyes glinting slyly.

Mu grinned, but as his eyes fell upon the red bouquet, his look softened into that warm smile once more.

"Yes."

Curiosity pricked at the change, the man moved closer.

"Sorry present?"

"Not today," Mu chuckled, handing the money over the counter to pay. John's face screwed up in thought.

"So . . . birthday?"

"Nope.—That's next month."

"Then . . . what . . . ?"

"You don't need a special occasion to love someone." The man's breath caught as he shrunk beneath Mu's hard stare.

But then, Mu erupted into laughter, hand rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, staring at Johm's face. "—I meant 'You don't need a special occasion to _show your love for_ someone'! Hah. It came out wrong . . . Sorry."

But then Mu shrugged, turning to leave.

"Though . . . both could work, eh?"

With a slight wave to the man behind him, Mu was quickly lost in the midday-morning crowds.

_--------------------_

After going back home to change (since he was still in the clothes of the day before), Mu walked into work, still carrying his bouquet. It didn't matter that he was supposed to be on vacation—he had to be in his little military office just in-case Murrue unexpectedly called.

He took off his work jacket and threw it on the coat-stand before continuing on.

He jiggled the handle, screwing his face at how it was locked. Mu always forgot to lock the door—so it annoyed him when others did it for him. Thinking back on it, his house was open when he got there—and when he left, he still never bothered to turn the key. . . . Another one of those 'everyday responsibilities' Murrue spoke about.

Setting the roses gently aside, Mu began to turn-out his pockets in search, but never found the keys—just his wallet.

Before he could 'worry' over the misplacement of them, Mu recalled setting them on the counter in Murrue's place, then quickly forgetting them for certain reasons.

He needed to get the keys to get into 'work', but, to get them, he had to go Murrue's . . .

"Well, that worked out perfectly, hm?" He chimed to himself, easily happy at the circumstances. Grinning broadly, Mu carefully picked up his bouquet once more and walked out—following the well-known path back to Murrue's place.

He didn't even bother to pick up his jacket.

_--------------------_

John peered down at the slip of paper in his hand, eyes strained as he glared at his writing. Usually he was impeccably neat, but in his haste, he didn't uphold to his standard when writing down the address. . . . And now he had to pay for it.

"Five or Nine . . . five or nine . . ." He kept muttering, becoming increasingly more annoyed with each revolution. "Which _is_ it?—House Forty-_Five_ or House Forty-_Nine_?" He spat, down to his last straw, his eyes scanning the tiny houses of the street.

"I'm _here_," he growled. "It's taken me way too long to get _here_." He clenched a fist around his bouquet. "I am _not_ waiting any longer.—Come _on_!" he finally shouted—his voice echoing in its aggravation.

As if to answer his query, that's when _she_ appeared . . . startled by the sound . . . standing up at another house alone the way. It was a bit too far to see her face, but he knew that body.

"Ah!"

John sprinted the lengths of the houses to land himself gracefully before the woman waiting there.

". . . I've found you," he breathed, unable to hold back a warm smile of remembrance.

---

Murrue sat herself down outside on her porch and had been sitting there for a while. The occasional cold wind did wonders for her racing mind.

She pulled her coat tighter around her as a particularly hard one blew.

Then she heard something that pulled her from her reverie—though she couldn't place exactly what it was. The shock though, pulled Murrue Ramius to stand.

Then she saw him—that man. He was so far off down the street, but she could feel their eyes meet for a moment before he suddenly began running towards her. Everything within her told her to get away—to get off the porch and go inside.

But her legs wouldn't move.

"There's no way," she repeated once more beneath her breath, trembling as the figure ran and became clearer. "_Please_. . . . Let there be no way. . . ."

He came and stopped and stood before her. He panted slightly, and the bundle of blue flowers easily shed petals beneath his grip . . . but he was still tall and thin and his chestnut hair still stayed close enough to his scalp as to not hide his still handsome face . . .

"Still" . . .

Slowly trembling, Murrue's hand came up to curl thinly about her mouth to hide her gasps. The hot tears that leisurely traveled from her amber eyes warmed her cheeks with their touch.

His returning, breathless grin could bring tears, too, to those amber eyes of his, but he held them back.

Everything seemed to shatter as Murrue's hand clasped tighter about it—that rose coffin that they shared.

". . . I've found you," he breathed. "It's been two years, but I finally found you again, Murrue."

"_John_ . . ."

* * *

**A/N: A few words.**

So, how do you like John? _So_ _far_, at least . . . This first chapter was extremely difficult to do, since I _had_ to have almost every other aspect of 'John' and his development laid out first before I could even write his introduction correctly. The absolute hardest thing about John is that he _**is**_ an established character (as '_Him_') but we dont know anything about him. One may think it would be easier to write him than other already-there characters (like Kira or Natarle, etc.), but . . . since John is utterly made-up, he was harder--especially for a person like me. I wanted John to be a guy we could see ourselves root for . . . if we only knew of Him and Murrue--and Mu didnt really exist. . . . I wanted him to be likable to a certain extent . . . since it was a man _Murrue_ was in _love_ with afterall, even if before Mu. In the end, I dont know if I'll be able to acheive that to the point that I wanted . . . Hm. But, all this may very well change, too . . .

(PS--The name John is a reference to 'John Doe'--the name given to an unidentified male body (. . . because I couldnt think of a workable name . . .))


	2. Not Forgotten

--Sorry—I wanted to finish _all_ of this by Mu's birthday, today (party!) . . . but I only got the 2nd chapter up. . . . But that's because I was working on the third (and I have _officially_ finished the entire last chapter!!—now I just have the write the rest of the story that gets it there!). Sad to say it—this chap is more just "backstory" like with chapter 1—setting it all up, but it's needed backstory! But, in the end . . . it stops at the point I need. --grins--

But, as some of you expressed worries—you must know: I love Mu and Murrue _way_ too much to destroy them and their amazing relationship. So _don't_ worry. . . . much.

Writing this, I kept being reminded of the whole Mu—Murrue—Neo thing . . . I guess it was the "two years" that did me in. I feel very bad for how similar it seems. But—2 years worked perfectly in a timeline! I didn't want it to be too long after the GS war, and the point where I made John "die" worked perfectly in that. ((They never gave _Him_ a date or battle of death, did they? Ah, well. I made my own date up.—yay for fanfiction))

PS . . .this may be a bit late, but, when writing this story, using the name "John" . . . it all seems _too_ out of place. Basically "John" was just a cop out for me since I couldn't think of a suitable name for him . . . one that fit. Should I replace it? Would it be too late? --Keep in mind, if I did end up replacing "John" it would only be changing to "Mark" (yay for obviously English/American names!—though it's really derived from latin) Don't ask me why "Mark" would be a better name than "John" . . . a random thought. But it's probably too late any way.

* * *

**Chapter Two -- ****Not Forgotten**

His eyes scanned over her with loving intent.

"You haven't changed one bit," he smiled, taking a step forward.—as Murrue took a step back. John froze, eyes stricken as they followed her move. It was then he noticed the _fear_ staring back at him—from those eyes he knew so deeply.

John worked hard on giving himself that understanding, gentle smile—even though all he could feel was his heart tearing.

"Listen . . ." He murmured. "There's a lot to talk about . . . and for you to hear. . . ." He took one step closer. Then two. "Can we please . . . go inside to discuss this?"

Murrue didn't move to answer. She could only stare. Slowly her mind registered his question . . . it somehow pushing through everything else in her thoughts.

She nodded and opened the door . . . leading him in. Murrue kept walking in her small home until she'd reached the other side of the furnished room where one couch lay. She stood before the comforter, choosing not to sit, and instead, watched John as he moved in, face softly content.

It was everything he'd thought it'd be: simple yet oddly elegant at the same time. It fit Murrue perfectly—with exception to the 'simple' part. On the opposite wall of the open room, John's eyes found a small table dressed in many things, but in one corner there stood many frames. Both he and Murrue were too far from them to see the subjects clearly—though both still looked.

He was curious.

"Who are you looking at?" he asked, first to break the silence.

She smiled. He loved her smile, no matter how weak it was.

". . . Old friends."

"Oh!" John lit up, beginning to move closer. "You mean from _The_—"

She shook her head. He faltered.

Murrue sighed, hugging her arms close to herself as an effort to push some semblance of calmness back into her frayed voice.

"It's harder when it's in the middle of war, I think. . . . To stay connected like that." Pause. "There was this one soldier . . . who was transferred off . . . but we never really got the chance to . . . before it was too late."

"Yes, war is like that. . . ." John's quiet amber eyes turned suddenly joyous. "But then, there are always those you cant _not_ see, right?—Hopefully the number's more than those you can't."

"Yes," she brimmed, returning his smile, mind happily touching upon every soul of the Archangel she'd known, with every one starred in her mind, noted to meet back up with again. It was a very happy thought.

"I brought you these," John ventured in the moment, holding out his prized-picked bouquet. He shrugged his shoulders, flashing a wry grin. "Took me forever to find the perfect ones. And look! Even after two years, I was right. They _do_ fit you perfectly. . . . I only wish I had roses too, but God never thought to make them in blue.—_Naturally_ anyway."

He held them out before him in the 'welcoming hall' of Murrue's home. Even though he brandished the flowers in her obvious sight, Murrue did not move to take them.

". . . What are you doing here, John?" She muttered, silent and stern as she saw the reason for their meeting again—as she saw _Him_ again.

John cracked at the emotion he could see barred away in her eyes. He opened his mouth, but froze, not knowing what to say as Murrue pressed on: "You're _dead_. We all knew you were _dead_. So how . . ." When her voice went high, she bit her lip to steady it. ". . . how . . . is this _possible_?"

"Only one way, Murrue," he tried. "Because the impossible _cant_ be possible, can it? No. I _never_ _died_."

"But . . . !"

John paused in his answer, flowers finally dropping, un-given, to his side. His eyes surveyed the strong woman before him . . . and the way she suddenly seemed so frail. Gently, he reached out, thick hands sliding onto her shoulders, compassion in his touch.

She inwardly shuddered at the feel.

"_Sit_, Murrue," he coaxed, softly pressuring her down—his smile easing the movement. "You know you want to. . . . Why fight it?"

She shook at familiarity.

_Dark space. Window. Night. Alone. Together._

_The two soldiers slipped into silence, but it was a comfortable one. As they stood there, time passing, his hand suddenly drifted away, somehow finding its way into hers._

_"W-what?" She flushed at the contact._

_"Shh, Murrue," he coaxed, softly pressing his lips to her hand—his smile turning her even redder. "You know you want to. . . . Why fight it?"_

_"I'm not fighting anything," she countered, freeing her hand from his._

_"Oh, really?" he wondered aloud, part breathlessly wry. It didn't matter—not as he leaned in, only to touch her lips with his. _

Murrue collapsed into the couch, suddenly realizing how much she'd needed the support.

"There. Better, right?" John smiled, taking a step back to survey his work. "And don't bother offering me a chair, either, Murrue—You should remember that I always like to stand."

"Yes, I remember that," she returned quietly, still lost in memories, smile playing upon those lips.

John smiled too. His face hardened, though, when he realized what he _had_ to say, though he knew its reaction.

"That day . . ." He brought up quietly. It was as low as his voice could go, but Murrue still heard it, heart immediately wrenched at that _particular_ memory.

"I've gone over it, over and over again, in my mind—many times since then," he breathed. "And I figured it out. That battle . . . that day . . . was a hectic one. Explosions left and right—it must have been hard to keep track of them all."

Murrue nodded in numbed agreement.

She remembered watching the battle on the screen set in the hangar.—She wasn't up in the Bridge that day. She had no idea of what was _really_ happening outside the ship . . . other than the occasional, vague word.

"Well, basically, my Armor . . . got badly damaged. Not enough to explode it, but . . . I had reason to want to dock again.—simply. Understand what I'm saying? I couldn't return to the ship. . . . It was too heavily under fire—It wouldn't have been able to take me in. So I asked to land inside another allied ship . . . and they said yes. I docked, got out—ran to the Bridge. I asked if there was any way to get in contact with you guys, but . . . they said they'd already tried—and that communications had been knocked out—Maybe from all the fire you'd taken? Well, it took awhile for repairs to be made on _both_ sides—and I couldn't just return unannounced either . . . so I _had_ to wait. Longest two days and nine hours of my life."

John paused and took a breath. He shifted his position a bit, him leaning on the big chair's arm. Murrue stayed silent.

"But, when I finally get back aboard, the one person I wanted to see most—_No_, the _only_ person I _needed_ to see . . . wasn't there. You'd been transferred in the time before I got back.—'_Urgently_ needed somewhere,' they said. . . . The captain had told me about . . ." John paused to choose his words. " . . what the ship had thought about the final outcome of the battle." Pause. "It was obvious you still believed that. I tried—I _did_—to get a hold of you. But that transfer . . . You'd been moved to some Top Secret thing—and it became a waste even to _try_ after that.

"But I _did_. I _kept_ trying, Murrue . . . for the rest of the _war_—just to find out where you were. Once it was over, of course, they told me one sentence and nothing more. 'Lieutenant Commander Murrue Ramius _was_ assigned to work with the development of the new warship Archangel, though her whereabouts now are unknown. Good-bye.' Which, as we both know, is just military top brass speech for 'She's on the Archangel, Dimwit.'" He stopped to breathe, faintly laughing at the memory.

"Wow . . . the Archangel. And you were promoted quite a bit too. But, _you_, an officer on the _Archangel_. The rogue ship Archangel. . . ."

"Captain," she muttered, quiet from her seat. John perked his ears.

"Hm?"

"_Captain_ of 'the rogue ship Archangel.' . . . Me."

"Don't lie, Murrue," John laughed. "—C'mon, _you_? We both know you've never had what it takes. . . . Especially of such a ship. It may have been a rogue but . . ."

"It's true, John," she defended, that familiar stern and commanding tone coming through the weakness. "_All_ the higher officers were KIA before we even _launched_. I was Captain the entire time."

He swallowed beneath the new heat.

"Really . . ." John muttered for a moment, to acknowledge the idea, then—"Where was I? Oh yes," He clapped his hands together. "After the war."

Murrue flinched at the dismissal.

"After the war," he continued, new grin on his boyish face, "I ran to that house of yours from before. I had the address from when you wrote it down for me, remember? I went there . . . but there was nothing left. . . ."

He stopped, eyes passing over her waiting for a reaction. None.

"Ahem—For the past year I haven't stopped looking either. Finally, a few months back, I got a break. I found out that you were here in Orb, alive and well—that you had survived the war and that you were even working for Morgenroete. But, even _that_ wasn't much of a help. It still took me forever to track down where—and then find your name, address and number. It's a lot harder than you'd think, Murrue," he laughed for a moment before turning towards her, grim. "But, if _I_ could, in the end, find you—that means _any_body could if they cared enough. I suggest you get those changed."

"I plan to," she muttered in return, quiet beneath her voice.

"Anyway—that was exactly one week ago from today!" He pronounced proudly, as if the time meant something. "And now, here I am, standing before you. Even after two years.—That answer everything?"

"Not . . . everything. But . . ." Murrue searched for the weak word. ". . . enough?" She glanced up to see him looking at her again—studying. "What?"

"I'm glad," John sighed with all his heart. "To _see_ _you_ again. Just this moment alone makes up for the past two years. And to think I felt like giving up sometimes."

His blatant emotion shook her . . . but she couldn't tell how. Was she scared?—or was she moved? Or . . .

Murrue's face twisted in the dark thought—which, in turn, shook _him_. All at once, her former lover lost that familiar strength and returned with the young, awkward worry.

"Wait—you _are_ happy I'm back, right?" He wondered aloud, completely fearful. His thoughts flickered back to the un-given flowers.

Murrue, though, _had_ to laugh at his worry. She suppressed it into a soft giggle.

"Of course, John." Her voice was airy—as if _she'd_ been the one speaking non-stop. "Even _more_ than that."

It was true.

This man she had longed after and mourned for, for two years, had finally returned to her. She was indescribably ecstatic. But that didn't explain . . . the painful pulse beating in with that joy. That came from some'thing' else. "I was just . . . surprised," she explained. "Even though I'd been wishing it—I never thought it'd come true. . . . To me, it seemed more like another dream."

John dashed his attention over Murrue, studying how she sat on the couch alone. Face turned away and arms cradled as she spoke tenderly. He had the insane urge to sit down beside her . . . but his would-be space was already taken away. For a quick moment, John despised the flowers he'd bought.

But it was of no real worry.

In one swift motion, using some new and hidden energy, the bouquet was soon off the couch and into John's arms. Grinning in half-hearted annoyance, he inspected them.

"Look, Murrue.—Brand new and they're already on the verge of _wilting_," he sighed. ". . . _I'll_ go get some water for them.—_You_ wait right here!" And he was off. John disappeared from the open room through the only other doorway—guessing the kitchen's placement.

Murrue made the beginning moves to follow him, but instead fell back into the cushion—fearing the strength of her legs. They betrayed her façade. Her hard eyes lost their hold for a moment and, strained, rushed to blink away the emotion of her heart.

". . . You've come too late, John," she murmured painfully. "I _have_ to tell him that. I . . ."

------

Meanwhile, John fluttered about Murrue's kitchen—opening about every small door he could find until he placed where the vases were kept. Before he found them, however, his short attention was taken away again.

His curious, dazed eyes washed over his love's quaint kitchen. It was in they same style as everything else he'd seen so far.—Simple, yet . . .bestowing-ly beautiful in its own way.

Light washed in from large bay windows, encasing everything with it's mid-afternoon peak. There were two other doorways off the kitchen—both open—and John could see a bedroom on one side and another random room on the other side. That was it—from what he could see—not a big mansion, but it worked.

What drew his attention most . . . was the center, where everything met—Kitchen, doors, sunlight and all. In the epicenter of it all there was a simple circular table, cleared of everything . . . except one small vase and a handful of day-old blooms.

Slowly he lowered the bouquet he'd been fawning onto the counter. John stared at it for a moment, it laying there before him. A singular pale petal was ripe to fall.

Though it was always understood to him that Murrue was a flower person . . . he couldn't see her rummaging through a garden—maybe not even her own—to pick random flowers in the hopes of a thin bouquet she could then display, almost proudly, on the kitchen table—especially in something that looked more like an empty jar instead of a vase. John couldn't see Murrue doing that . . . for herself.

------

When John stepped from the kitchen doorway, Murrue was still sitting down, turned away on the couch. His grin had made some cracks, but when he spoke, his voice had only changed in volume.

"Sorry . . . I couldn't find a vase. But it's okay—since you already have flowers to look at. . . ." Murrue seized up. He shrugged, resting himself back against the chair again. ". . . I didn't realize. If I'd known, I would have brought something different."

Nothing.

The cracks in his grin spread even farther.

". . . I was right. I'm glad, Murrue."

"Hm?"

"There's someone else—in lack of a better term—_with_ you. Right?" It finally shattered. But his face, everything . . . was still so kind, so loving . . . but steeped in . . .

"To be honest . . ."

. . . regret.

John 'laughed'. ". . . I guess I already knew."

"_What_?" Murrue finally forced herself to her feet—eyes wide at her previous lover's knowledge of him. She'd thought—

He forced a swallow, trying hard to keep his voice as usual—not the higher octave it wanted to jump into—which was quite difficult. The man swayed on his feet, turning around in a slow pacing.

". . . When you answered the phone this morning . . . you sounded so happy. You sounded just the way you did, before, with me. I guess I knew there was no way that you _couldn't_ be with somebody.—I mean, you are _you_, after all."

His words shot through her, momentarily making her wince. The pain was short lived, however. Though his words alone seemed distant or cold, his voice while speaking them . . . was anything but.

Murrue wanted, so much at that moment, to open her mouth and ask 'Then why are you here?'—but she didn't. She could only smile back, if somewhat weakly.

"That's right."

"Then who is it?" He wondered. "Who is it, Murrue, who you love so much? Who is it that's able to put that smile in your eyes or that tender purr in your voice?"

There was a moment of silence, his amorous observations echoing.

"Like I'd tell you his _name_, John," Murrue partially laughed, eyes brimming with thought. "Haven't you read any _books_ since the war? Don't you know what happens?" she teased.

"It's okay, Murrue," he chuckled back in return. "I'm _not_ jealous.—Just _curious_. You can tell me. I swear."

Murrue couldn't _not_ stare at him . . . with that honest, open face.

"I came here knowing what might happen. It's _understandable_." John assured—still pacing. "You thought I was dead. . . . that I could _never_ come back. And it's been two _years_ since then. . . .—Honestly, I think I would have been surprised if you _had_ waited for something so impossible for that long . . ." he swallowed, wetting his ever-drying throat.

"Who is it, Murrue? Who is this man who loves you now as much as I always have?"

He was sincere. She knew that.

But it was still so hard for her . . . there was still that ominous black cloud hanging atop her thoughts.

She couldn't outright say it. So, she mumbled it indistinctively beneath her airy breath.

"Mu . . ."

Just forming his name with her lips formed a smile. John leaned closer and struggled with what she didn't want him to hear. Even so, he could just make out sounds: ". . . Mmhu . . . LahFuh—"

"_LaFlaga_?" He shot suddenly, standing straight, eyes wide. His brain took the pieces and jumped ahead. "_Mu_ LaFlaga, The _Hawk_ of Endymion?—_Him_?"

As he stared blankly at her, she stared right back.

"You _know_ him . . . ?" she gasped, color drained from her face.

"He's a _soldier_, Murrue," he pressed, the _true_ depth of his voice finally returning. "'Best of the Naturals' when flying, they all said. 'Best pilot the EA's had in _years_!' was the agreement. And don't forget, he's 'the only one of the Armor pilots left who knows what he's doing.' . . ." John couldn't hold back his scoff. "I thought he _died_."

"He did . . . if you were following Earth Forces records." Murrue ventured carefully, frame still shaken from the . . . surprise. All the strength and warmth she'd spent so long to return . . . was gone already. "Here, now, he's very much alive."

Ahe trembled on her feet, taking a step closer. "John?" At her voice, he blinked, stretching his face out with his hands.

"Oh, sorry," he muttered, suddenly _tired_. "It's just . . . I wasn't expecting a name I'd actually know."

"Me neither."

John's young face showed its age as it looked out to Murrue—though his eyes painfully drifted elsewhere.

"So . . . this is it? Are you _really_ with Endymion now?—Are you really just going to let us slip away?" His colored eyes focused back on her now—but softened, as they were greeted with her image.

John started moving forward, straight, deliberate steps to move himself before Murrue. When he got there, and their faces were less than a few inches apart . . . he sighed at the mixed look he saw looking back.

She was so close, he could wrap her close in a matter of movements—and he wanted so much to—yet he chose not. Not then. There would be no mutual comfort in it _then_. . . .

"It may be cliché," he started roughly, staring into her eyes. "—but . . . I _still_ love you, Murrue. I love you the same way, or even more so, than how much I did two years ago. Does that mean _nothing_ now?"

His amber eyes shattered their hold.

"John . . ." Murrue breathed—unable to do much else.

Though her heart was disgusted by it, her body was reacting completely to just how close he was now. She couldn't breathe—evenly, at least—her lungs moving in sync with only the hard off-beating rage of her heart. Part of her angrily repelled the _need_ she had to lean _closer_ to him—to just fall forward . . . But that was only part of her.

Through it all, her mind stayed so busy beneath the sudden taxing, it became lost in tearing confusion.

"I . . .—"

One quick rapt on the front door and Murrue's hard beating heart jumped past her throat.

"Mu!" She gasped, knowing that quick habit of his anywhere. John's eyes widened, hearing her soft exclamation.

Murrue's front door suddenly swung open then, it letting even more light in onto the two.

"_Murrue_!" _He_ called grinning. "Sorry!—I forgot my k—"

He froze in the doorway. His startled eyes dashed over the scene—a man, a woman, and a discarded bouquet of blue flowers—and with each flash his eyes became all the more confused.

Mu blinked, taking in the familiar details around him as his hand slid numbly from door-handle.

John spun from facing stunned Murrue to looking straight at the stocky man in the doorway.

"_You_?!" John growled in realization, face suddenly dark and sharp as it recognized the man. "_You're _the—?!"

Mu held himself from taking a step back beneath the surprise of change.

_That **kid** . . . from the flower shop . . . ?_

* * *

**AN**: Since I have about 70 percent of chapter 3 done already . . . heh—prepare to see it up very soon. Yay! I honestly don't know how long this'll go . . . but I know how it'll end. Seriously, though—I wanted to have it _all_ done for today . . . **_PS_**--What's your opinion now? Hmmm? I'd really like to know If I'm doing him okay--'cause it's obvious he's not _'perfect'_. . . . 


	3. A Never Wilting Rose

Sorry I was so long in posting this Chapter. What I intended to do as "Chapter 3" became cut up into Chaps 3, 4 and 5. Then, for editing purposes, I split some stuff and it got pushed into 2 different chapters instead. Now, about to post Chapter 3, I realize that 15 typed pages is a bit too much for one chapter so I cut this chapter in half again . . . So we're back to 3 different chapters from my original . . . But I still posted these two chapters together, since I think it's easier to read through that way.

I have this question, maybe one could answer—because it is very interesting to know . . . When I write—am I "hard to follow"? Like . . . I feel like it's hard to read all that write—especially since I usually write quite long chapters . . .

PS--Out Of Character-ness beware

* * *

**Chapter Three – A Never-Wilting Rose**

"Wha . . . ?"

Mu felt himself cock his head at the confusing scene. Too many questions peaked themselves inside Mu's mind—the familiar man's change being quite high on his list. John didn't wait for Mu to piece it together.

With another dark glare sent in the newcomer's direction, John roughly pushed himself away from Murrue. Pausing only to glance back at her, he stormed his way out, making sure to 'accidentally' hit Mu hard in the arm as he pushed past. Mu didn't say a word—just followed the man's exit quizzically with focused eyes.

Murrue's final ounce of strength disappeared as John was lost from view."Mu . . ." Came Murrue's voice—quiet. He immediately spun back around to face inside at her call, but he lost his breath at the sight of his strong Murrue standing there—utterly broken.

The hands she'd held at her side came up, shaking-ly coupling around her mouth. Held tight in one hand was what she hadn't yet let go in all the time _He_'d been there. Mu recognized the necklace instantly, just from the simple chain that dropped from her closed hand.

His mind figured out everything else quite quickly after that.

He couldn't hear her speak, not over the sudden shattering of everything he'd known.

". . . You know . . . John, don't you?" Murrue trembled. "He's . . .—He was . . .—Um—. . . The truth is he . . ." Tears welled, Mu not waiting for them to fall.

Dropping his own flowers in the doorway, he made his way across the room in a few, quick strides. When he stopped in front of her, Mu didn't even give Murrue enough time to look up before he pulled her into his arms and wrapped his body around hers in tight embrace.

She sunk into him as he held her, hands as if supporting her weight against him. At that moment, Mu's head ran even faster than his heart, it seemed—an impossible pace. He knew, in his head, that holding her, her being so close to _him_, at that moment, was just making things harder . . . but . . . Mu knew he couldn't have stopped himself—the need of his heart to comfort her was too overwhelming.

But, then, he couldn't even _imagine_ how Murrue felt then—but she wasn't fighting his hold, so he didn't let go.

He didn't _ever_ want to let Murrue go.

Mu forced his eyes shut as he held her.

There was silence between the two, the hold of the other and heartbeats they could feel enough for conversation. Until her voice came—breathless beside his ear.

". . . Mu . . . He's alive. . . ." She choked back tears; his eyes shot open. "He's _really_ alive. . . ." Murrue's thin arms pulled him even tighter, squeezing out whatever space was left. "He . . . I . . . _He_ . . ."

She buried her face in his shoulder to hide the emotion, though the point came across.

It took a bit of strength, but Mu was able to pull himself away from her—gentle and slow in his movements. He still kept her cradled close, but at least he could see her face.

Which he instantly regretted.

He saw her, eyes wide, shaking with confusion and fear, the few tears that managed to escape them left stained trails. Mu wondered as to what his face was like then.—How much of what he felt inside could she see?

"Murrue . . ." His voice couldn't go much above a whisper either. From habit only, Mu found himself reaching up, thick fingers brushing away some rogue strand of beautiful hair.

Murrue found her voice at his familiar touch.

"Mu . . . I'm _so_ . . .—"

"—Tired?" He cut in, pushing a grin. Murrue couldn't hold back a broken smile at his guess.

The word she'd been fishing for . . . 'lost' . . . 'confused' . . . Seemed meaningless to be spoken.

"Tired works too," she breathed, face turned down. Her eyes focused on the way her hand gripped his creased sleeve.

_Odd . . . he's wearing his sleeves long today?_

Her other hand still held tight to that necklace.

". . . Then let's see you get some rest, Murrue," Mu smiled—or at least attempted to. Taking a step away from her, Mu put some distance between them, yet still held on to her arm. They walked together, back through to the kitchen—and the connected bedroom. Mu stopped her at the door.

"Now, _Murrue_," Mu truly grinned, voice naturally a mock-scold. He could recall times before. . . . "No _cheating_, all right? I want you to take some nice, long, relaxing time to _sleep_. . . .—You need it more than you know, you know." _. . . to calm your nerves_, he finished silently, _if even a little_.

He didn't need to worry for her understanding, for she could see _it_ in his eyes—hear _it_ in his tone. She, though, began to worry.

Murrue started to push her door open, but faltered, suddenly spinning around. Her thin hand found his thick arm again—her amber eyes shimmering.

"Um . . ."

He chuckled that reassuring chuckle.

"Don't fret, Murrue.—I'll be right _here_ when you wake up."

She weakly smiled her thanks before slipping behind the closed door.

Mu stared at it for several moments after that before turning around, running his hands through thick hair. _As if I'd leave you alone right now_. . . .

"That's the _last_ thing you'd need," he spat beneath his breath. He went to sit down, but before he could, Mu's eyes landed upon the bouquet of blue flowers he'd helped, unknowingly, pick out. They'd been left. By Him.

"No . . ." Mu muttered slowly. "Maybe _my_ being here is the real last thing you need. . . ."

"—Ah—_Stop_ it," he growled at himself, shaking his head.

The thoughts had already started to come, even in the short time, but each coming thought was quickly shaken away.

With a groan, Mu stretched, easing away the sleep from his muscles. He had a long wait ahead of him—because he'd promised Murrue he'd wait. He glanced at the clock, surprised at the time. Three in the afternoon.—Time really did fly by fast . . . _that_ day, at least.

Needing something to do, Mu circled the kitchen aimlessly. His mind traveled from the roses he'd dropped, still littering the doorway, to Murrue, to John's left bouquet, shedding petals on the counter, to Murrue. Half-conscious, Mu quickly cleaned those blue petals away before wandering off to find their original owners some water.

_Water . . ._

Mu stopped in his tracks to listen to the small house around him . . . and it's oddly _comforting_ silence. Forgetting the flowers, Mu slowly made his way over to Murrue's closed door. _Should I . . . ?_ Mu swallowed, waiting, before resolving himself.

"Murrue?" he whispered, with one quick, but soft, rapt to the door.

Nothing. Unsure, of everything, it seemed, Mu kept going even so.

"Murrue? Um, incase you cant sleep—even though you want to . . .—I . . . I think hot water would be the best . . . like a long shower. . . . It'd be really relaxing for you. Oh—Wait—Women like _baths_, right? I say shower, but you can take a bath, okay?" Mu paused, gritting his teeth at his obviously kiddy-like choice of words.

He leaned in, listening for who he knew was on the other side.

". . . Murrue?"

Waiting only a moment more, Mu made himself turn the knob, he slowly easing the door open. He smiled. Murrue's room was just the way it was that morning. Nothing much had changed.—only now, Murrue was curled up in the bed, splayed over the covers as if she'd collapsed there.

No wonder she hadn't heard him.

"Seems you were more tired than we both thought, Murrue."

Mu slowly walked over, careful to miss that one squeak in her floor as he stood beside her bed. "Angelic"—that was the only word to describe what he saw.

He fashioned a smile, reached down to grab the comforter and pulled it up, to lay about her bare shoulders.

Murrue nuzzled herself closer into the warmth . . . soft smile to her face.

Mu relaxed at the sight. He even calmed down enough to have his mouth say aloud what his mind was thinking.

". . . Which face are you seeing now . . . ? Past . . . present . . . or future?"

Mu slowly shook the haunting thought away, knowing instantly it was another thing he absolutely _did not_ need at the moment.

He left her room, and closed her door—all without another sound.

------

When Murrue woke up, it was dark outside. No light came in from the window. Not even the faint glow of a moon.

Taking a moment to place where she was, she suddenly remembered all she'd gone to sleep to forget.

Though Murrue did remember everything, it didn't hurt like before. Having everything happen at _once_ like that . . .

It had taxed her out.

After all that time of empty dreams, nothing had really changed . . . John was back. And _he_ was there. . . .

Even so, Murrue felt like her normal self again—both physically _and_ mentally strong. The sleep had definitely helped. Just like Mu had said.

_Mu!_

Murrue wrenched herself from the warm bed, forgetfully leaving behind a silver coffin pendant on her pillow. Soft feet on a cold floor, she ran from her room, only to find him then, passed out, sitting at her kitchen table. The light above the table was on, though it wasn't very bright at all—one couldn't see anything else besides its occupant. Walking over, she silently giggled at how he drooped in thick sleep, splayed out like that. Then she saw the table he was sitting at.

A tiny vase with, basically, pulled garden weeds still rested in the center. It was carpeted in shadow.

Mu had pulled out three large vases from their various hiding spots and set them there. Only one had flowers. One, beautifully crafted of red glass, sat beside the 'weeds' in the center. It displayed a bouquet of richly beautiful . . . violet-blue blooms. The other two vases were pushed off to the side, red roses lain between them. Petals of the two newest bouquets had fallen, mixing together across the table top.

Softly smiling, Murrue picked a lone violet sprig from his thick hair. She set it back on the table.

Gently grabbing his shoulder, she shook at him.

"Mu.—Mu, wake up!"

He slowly opened his eyes at her voice. Murrue knew the _instant_ those thin slivers of blue sleep recognized her as the standing there. They lit up, involuntarily dancing.

"Ah, _Murrue_," he mumbled, picking himself up, stifling a yawn. "Oh . . . How was your . . . ?"

"Dreamless."

He blinked, unrequited sleep interfering with his ability to connect the two. Murrue stood straight, hands easily finding her hips.

"Mu, how long have you been sleeping like that?" She wondered aloud, voice filled with worry. She could tell the places of his face once lying on the table were quickly turning red.

"Oh . . . I don't know . . ." _Yawn_. ". . . What time is it?"

Murrue traversed through the darkness of the kitchen to flip on a light. As the rest of the large room became suddenly bright, Murrue held in a smile at the way Mu winced.

"Ten-thirty."

"At _night_?" He asked, both incredulous and suddenly awake. The darkness couldn't lie.

"Yes." She answered, quiet yet laced with gentleness.

Her eyes never left the man she'd recently become to know. However 'recently' they'd met, it didn't change the fact that she knew him . . . everything about him, it seemed. Nothing about him surprised her anymore . . . though he surprised her so often.

He noticed her focus, and grinned in return, as he busied himself flattening down his hair.

But . . . the word was "seemed."

"Ten-thirty, eh?" He ruffled his newly flattened hair. "—I have to go."

"What?" Murrue's face broke into surprise.—But which kind? "It's _ten-thirty_, Mu.—Where would you be going?"

She took a few steps forward, taking away some space between them. Mu didn't move—he only sighed.

"Home." He said, a certain faint finality to his tone. But his blue eyes smiled for her. "I should really . . . be getting home."

They didn't smile anymore.

"It's too late to walk that far," she countered.

"Oh, I've walked farther," he quickly dismissed turning from her to gather his coat.

"No, you haven't," Murrue glared. "—_Especially_ not in the dark."

He faltered. It was true. Murrue leaned back into the wall, arms close around her. "Just _stay_ . . ." She asked, bordering on a plead.

Mu, back turned towards her, absently played with the hem of his coat pocket.

"Thanks for the offer, but . . . No.—I . . . I have to get home. . . ."

He began to make his way from the kitchen, course set straight for the front door. Murrue quickly followed after him.

"What—Have _work_ in the morning?" she forbiddingly teased. It wasn't hard to figure out the truth of earlier that day. It was easy to tell he had truly been on vacation that day, though the reason _why_ was still a mystery.

Mu paused before the door, spending time to actually think.

". . . Maybe," he answered lightly, turning to face her with a smile—however soft. Murrue straightened.—that wasn't the answer she'd been expecting. Not at all.

Mu continued to smile half-heartedly—knowing.

". . . It's better than staying home and doing nothing, right?—_You're_ going to be busy tomorrow, after all, so . . ."

"Hm . . . ?"

She drained as the meaning of his words sank in.

"_No_!—Mu—I'm _not_—"

". . . Just give him a chance, Murrue," Mu finally muttered, dropping the words darkly. The way his face was turned, she couldn't see his eyes, nor could he see her face.

"What?"

_. . . Don't make me say it again_, he inwardly growled, pleading.

When Mu raised his head to her, he smiled at Murrue. He smiled that smile—That wholly supportive one. And it _was_. In fact, he was surprised at how true that smile felt.

He grimaced in frustration, though, unable to focus his words the way he wanted.

"Look . . . Once you _love_ someone . . . you never _truly_ stop, Murrue.—No matter what." Mu muttered, force faltering sweetly. ". . . Not even for me."

His smile flashed, familiar and known. Though his words unsettled her, she could tell it was somehow growing into a perfect moment—a perfect time—to say _those_ words . . . those cocky, arrogant know-all words of his.

She waited in the silence, but he never did answer her musings.

"This is _him_, right?" Mu started, forceful once more, almost staring Murrue down. "The man you _loved_ . . . and lost? _Right_? . . . You've been given a second chance—a very rare one. And I _want_ you to take it. See where it takes you.—I don't want you to regret anything. Not with this."

"Mu . . ."

"Give him a chance," he coaxed, turning to a genuine, jovial laugh. "—like the chance you gave me!"

She couldn't help the huffed roll of her eyes as she glared over at the open man.

"I didn't give you one. Mu. You _took_ it."

"Ha, I did?" Mu laughed, grinning at his new information. "Well then," he teased, "Give him the chance you would've given me if I didn't steal it first."

Murrue's soft laughs brought Mu back to seriousness. He couldn't help but be so close. He checked himself, and struggled with the soft objective way he had had before.

"But . . . really . . ." His eyes drifted away. "Give him a chance, and . . . when the time comes, Murrue . . . you'll have to send him away . . . or . . . send . . . _me_ . . . away. . . ."

Mu drifted into breathlessness, face suddenly wide beneath his falling hair. It was as if he'd suddenly realized everything . . . with the coming of his own words. Quickly noticing the silence he'd left hanging, Mu jumped back into a smile.

His breathless voice was eagerly shallow.

"When that happens, promise it'll be your choice alone, 'kay?"

"—But—Mu—" Murrue's mind blurred, "What you're _saying_, it—it . . ." _isn't like you. . . . _Her amber eyes shimmered in confusion—but he didn't see.

"Hm?" Mu cocked his head. "Whadja say?"

Her head dropped.

"Yes." She nodded in agreement, oddly defeated. By what, she didn't know. Why she was acting the way she was—she didn't know. Why her heart, in that moment, beat so fast . . . she didn't know the reasons.

"Good!" Mu beamed. "You're giving him a chance—no matter the fact that he's . . . still just a _kid_." Grumbling, he remembered the man he'd met earlier as Murrue pinked devilishly beside him.

"'Kid'?" she softly snickered. "Mu, I don't think you can say that one. . . . John's older than you are, after all."

"_What_?" Mu blinked. "_No_ . . . he can't be . . ." Mu glanced over at the hall's mirror.

The blond looked so much older. ". . . No . . ."

"_Yes_, he can.—By a couple _months_, actually," Murrue's face glinted, playful—knowing _exactly_ where it hurt. "In _fact_, Mu, at the _moment_, he's—"

"—What does age matter, anyway?" Mu huffed, quickly waving the point away. Murrue smiled.

A silence fell down upon the pair. It wasn't 'awkward' per say, but it wasn't the most comfortable they'd had either.

Mu's hand was still on the door knob.

Murrue's sight fell anxiously to the floor and his scuffed shoes.

"I . . . I should be going now . . . right?"

Her face lit up with hopeless thought. Reaching over to the small table, she grabbed a small flashlight and thrust it into his hands. "_Don't_ forget this." She was so serious, Mu could only laugh.

"You shouldn't worry about me, Murrue, but . . . Thanks."

He took it from her, but as one hand took the light, the other slipped itself into her hand. Or . . . was it her hand that slipped into his? His blinked surprise melted into a genuine loving smile.

"I'm glad," he muttered. Murrue cocked her head.

"Hm?"

_I'm glad that . . . I had to **make** you agree to do this._

Mu only smiled.

_It seems you were thinking of **me**, after all._

His smile only worsened her confusion. He sighed, grinning but shoulders falling, if only a bit.

"Now, go back to sleep, Murrue," he ordered. "—Or, knowing _you_ . . . Stay up all night and defy everything I just said. . . . After all—_I_ can't tell you what to do," he chuckled, grinning knowingly. "—Think I would have figured that one out by now, eh?"

"Maybe," Murrue returned quietly.

Letting go of her hand, Mu came close enough to kiss her good-night and good-bye—a soft peck . . . on her forehead. Very friendly-like.

He didn't say a word after that; he just looked over the tiny light he'd been given. The front door opened, and he stepped away. With a loud laugh, Mu left, disappearing into the cloud-carpeted night.

Murrue followed the light of her flashlight as far as she could before finally closing the door.

She shook off a shiver from the cold.

The house suddenly seemed very empty.

------

Murrue sighed, staring into the hall mirror. No matter what she'd done that morning, her face still gave away how tired she felt. She pulled at her eyes, hoping half-heartedly that every move could somehow spring them back into the open orbs she'd come to know.

Rolling those sleep-darkened eyes, Murrue pulled on the rest of her light jacket, giving up. Picking up her purse, Murrue fixedly counted to make sure she had everything together. She pulled out her keys, ready . . . before she paused, hand on the knob.

The phone lay silent on the couch of her 'opening hall'.

Her eyes drooped even more.

He still hadn't called.

Not even a simple word—not even to say he'd gotten back safely. _Walking that far, alone, at night? I know it's Orb, but . . . I can still worry, cant I?_

Honestly, Murrue couldn't figure out which worried her more: the _need_ for him to call . . . or the reason why he didn't.

_Doesn't he know that?_

Her house keys jingled between her fingers, alerting back to her mission. She wrenched her front door open.

"Oh, why do I have so much to—!"

She instantly swallowed her outburst.

John was sitting on her front stoop. Just sitting.

Upon seeing her, the open file of papers in his lap instantly folded closed as he stood to greet.

"Murrue!"

"John?" Murrue hated the way her heart seemed to flutter at the way his face brightened just by his name. She stayed stunned, standing in between her home and outside.

His face creased with care.

"I'm sorry for coming so early, Murrue. It's just . . . I really didn't like how I left things off yesterday—between _us_." He chuckled softly. "See, my temper kind of got the better of me again. And I—"

Murrue finally held up her hand to silence him, amber eyes wide with worry.

". . . How long have you been out here, John?"

He blinked, glancing down at his watch-less wrist.

"I don't know . . . what time is it?" Murrue caught her breath for an instant, mind flickering on the same recent memory of another's voice.

She shook the connection away.

"—You could have just _knocked_," she snapped, "instead of waiting out here. It's _cold_. What if you got sick?"

John laughed.

"Don't worry about _me_, Murrue. . . . The only reason I didn't ring the bell was because I didn't know if you'd be sleeping or not.—Sleep patterns at home and sleep at war are a bit different, right? I didn't want to risk waking you up."

Murrue faltered realizing he hadn't answered her question. It was going on Nine in the Morning. What if he'd been out there since . . .

"That's very kind of you, but . . . next time, _just wake me up_," she growled, stern.

"Oh, I'm sorry. . . .—Ah, where are you going?" He cocked his head—puppy-like. "Work?"

". . . No. I have some errands to do in town."

Murrue's eyes drifted slowly around to dash up once to his face, ever shy. "Um . . . Would you . . . like to come?"

"Of course!" He lit up, his missed childish-excitement taking her heart back to the sky again. "—Of course, Murrue!"

She couldn't help it.

It was overwhelming.

He grinned, holding out his hand—a sight she could remember seeing many times before. But, after a moment's pause, and a moment's thoughts . . .

He held out his hand—and she took it.

_Give him a chance . . . right?_


	4. Questions

Please enjoy . . . This has a different air than Chapter 3, I think. It's also a couple pages shorter.

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**Chapter Four – Questions**

"Look, I'm sorry for calling you up all of a sudden like this . . ." Mu's hands fiddled around inside his pockets. He took on the appearance of some sheepish kid, watching the way his foot kicked a small stone rather than looking up.

"It's okay.—I guess. . . ."

"Usually I just let fate bring us together if need-be, but now . . . with _this_ . . ." Mu looked up, grinning with a weak chuckle. "I guess I couldn't wait."

The pair walked along the sidewalk that would eventually lead them to the center of town. Mu preferred walking over driving, for some reason. If he had the choice or chance, he would always seem to walk.—which was why he hadn't seemed to buy a car yet—in all of his time in Orb.

"To tell you the truth, Kid, I'm not here to ask for your thoughts or your help. And if you, for some reason, _do_ give me advice . . ." He turned his view, looking straight into the younger man's eyes, crystal clear and laughingly sure as ever. ". . . I wont listen to a word of it."

"Heh, _Mu_. . . ."

"It's _true_!" He defended himself—only half-hearted. ". . . I would _never_ trust anything _this_ important . . . to the mind of a _kid_.—Even a boy like you. Understand?"

"Then why'd you call me? With something like this, maybe it would be better to talk with—"

"I _would_." Mu cut in, knowing exactly what the boy was saying. He sighed. "I _would_ . . . if it wasn't _about_ her.—_That's_ why this is so important. That's why . . . it's my . . . "

Mu drifted, unable to piece the rest together. Kira instantly silenced—uncomfortable gaze reverting forward.

Mu's hand fumbled in his pocket during the quiet between the walking pair. His fingers never stopped with that stupid box—opening and closing—turning and feeling—It never left his touch.

". . . You never knew, did you?"

Mu laughed to himself, face laughingly wry at what he was muttering. "I wouldn't expect you to. Not _that_."

Kira cocked his head, ears intent on what Mu was trying to say. If there was any time to listen to the older pilot, _this_ would be it. But Mu's voice wasn't laughing anymore—it was lost . . . in thought, in musing, in relation. . . .

". . . It isn't my story to tell.—_Got that_?" Mu glared threateningly. "—And to be honest, Kira, I don't know a lot of the details myself, so . . ."

Kira's silence was his promise.

Mu grinned.

"During our stay on the Archangel . . . You probably didn't know—nobody knew—but . . . Murrue was in love."

Kira smiled. Mu laughed.

"Not with me, of course."

Kira froze. Mu sighed, brow furrowing ever so slightly.

"It was a man . . . a soldier . . . an _armor_ _pilot_ who never made it back. She really loved him—and it was _obvious_ that she still mourned for him. He was that big a part of her life."

Kira was silent, every attention on the man walking beside him. He had to be careful—Mu was so lost in his thoughts, the younger of the two feared the man might walk straight into something.

"But even despite all that . . . I did my best," Mu grinned. "You know, she never said anything about him . . . I never asked. He didn't matter to me, though I _did_ wonder from time to time. . . .

"—Now, when I finally felt like I could do something _really_ important . . ." Mu's hand painfully clenched around that tiny box in his pocket. "Kira . . ."

Mu looked over into the other's violet eyes, straining to correctly steady his voice.

"You know that man . . . ? The one who died . . . ?"

The deathly pause caught the boy, immersed in Mu's attempt to smile.

". . . He's alive."

"_Whah_ . . . ?"

"—He never died, it seemed," Mu grinned. "He's come back. To her." His smile somehow grew brighter . . . yet emptier. "Kira, she loved him—_No_ . . . She _loves_ him.—And I love her. And all it's seemed to do is put Murrue in the middle." _And put me on the edge . . ._

Kira stared up at Mu, eyes wide as the strong wall of the man cracked—and a small sliver of how the man _really_ felt appeared on his face, unwanted-ly ruining everything in silence.

The two kept walking, Kira trying hard to keep up with the man's long strides—though the boy was tall himself.

Mu couldn't hold in a genuine chuckle as his dark eyes mused.

"Funny thing is . . . I _met_ him. I _spoke_ to him. . . ." Kira's eyes flicked up to him in surprise.—Mu was smiling. "He was an interesting kid—whoops—_guy_, I mean. He's my age, but . . . he seemed younger when I met him."

Shrug.

"Now . . . I'm not so sure."

"Mu . . ."

"—When I first met him, we didn't know . . . you know," Mu grinned at the irony. "And he wanted me to help him pick out flowers—which I did. We spent so long there, trying to figure it out. He told me about her—that love of his—he told me everything he could say in such a short time, everything he loved . . . about _her_. . . ."

Mu's bright eyes darkened, narrowing silently, dangerously.

"And not once . . . not _once_ in that _entire_ conversation about her," he weakly growled, "did I ever stop to think: 'Oh, that's just like Murrue' or 'Hey, that's sounds like something Murrue would do. . . .' . . ."

His weak growl gained _immediate_ strength.

"—Not _**once**_!"

Mu lashed out in a darkness Kira hadn't seen a hint of since the war. Deep within Mu's pocket, his palm could feel every letter etched into the metal emblem of the velveteen box.

Brief anger quickly subsiding, Mu finally stopped walking and turned to face Kira to not ask advice.

"Kid . . . Did she really change that much, do you think . . . ? Is she so different I couldn't . . . ? Or am I just that _incompetent_?"

Kira stayed silent, remembering exactly why he wasn't the best choice for a talk like this.

Mu took Kira's silence in his own way. "Yep, that's probably the one," he muttered wryly.

"No!" Kira countered quickly, 'fiercely'. "You are not _that_, Mu."

"Then why? Why cant I see what _he_ sees in her?"

"Well . . .—What _do_ you see?" At the thought alone, Mu smiled.

"I see . . . everything.—Or . . . at least . . . I _thought_ I did. . . ."

Mu turned his head away. He wanted to have a 'he, himself' moment, wanted to wish that he hadn't asked Kira along—but that was impossible to want.

Kira stood beside him, trying to fumble with words.

"Um, Mu, I-I think—"

"Oh, Kid—Look!" Mu, suddenly giddy in the face, grabbed Kira's shoulder and pointed a bit far down the way. "We're there!"

Mu glinted a roguish grin, arm sagging its way around the teenager.

"Wanna stop and have one? My treat."

"Uh . . . Mu . . ." Kira himself sagged beneath the heavier man's weight. The boy tried to grin at the man's kiddy behavior, but it came out one exasperated smile. "I—It's _too_ . . ."

"'It's too' _what_?" Mu straightened. "—It's _never_ too early for a drink, Kid.—So, what do you say? You know they make the best ones here. I'll pay, I swear." Mu coaxed, pouting.

Kira still strained his smile.

"Um . . . I don't think . . ."

"_Fine_," Mu huffed, childishly over-playing the dramatics. He plopped himself down in one of the café chairs. "_Fine_. You go off and finish whatever you said you needed to do."

Sulk. "—Like shopping an' stuff."

Mope. "—_Dresses_ probably."

The boy laughed, the older man's childish change easily entertaining.

"Mu . . ."

"No, go," he grinned, laughing. "Seriously, Kid. Go before I decide to tie you to the chair or something and _make_ you have one of these drinks with me."

It was hard, but Kira slowly walked away, turning around several times with a serious softness to his violet eyes.

In that time, Mu had stopped play-brooding and had waved to the outdoor place's attendant by then. The last thing Kira saw was a genuine smile.

---

Grin gone as soon as it had appeared, Mu propped himself up straighter in his little chair. With ease the small black box was out of his pocket and centered before him. Mu stared at the way the dark velvet was oddly reflected on the blue stained glass of the table.

He went to flick it open, but stopped as soon as his thick, calloused fingertips encircled it. Mu knew what was inside. It wasn't going to change. It probably wasn't ever going to.

From the corner of his sights, Mu spotted the uniformed 'waiter' of sorts returning. Grin easily replaced, the box back in his pocket, Mu greeted his friend and his drink with joy.

"The usual, Sir—Though earlier than usual, hm?" the attendant subtly teased, presenting a tall metal glass.

"Ah . . . _thanks_!"

Mu licked his lips for his much needed drink of choice.

"Say . . . Where's that lady-friend of yours? I've never seen you here without her before."

Mu blinked up at the man he knew from habit and smiled.

"Is that so. . . ?—_Well_, I'll make sure not to come without her next time, if that makes you happy," Mu teased back; the man laughingly denying everything Mu was implying.

"N-No, no, Sir . . . !"

Mu watched as the young attendant walked away, off through the outdoor tables and back into the café-like place. With a deep sigh, Mu turned back to his drink and sipped it gratefully.

"—It's _not_ too early," he grumbled.

------

John glanced over at Murrue. They had fallen into another bit of understood quiet after a long conversation.—It was as if nothing had changed, almost. That's the way it used to be.—comforting. He could remember a time when he loved those little silences, because . . . he'd been told once—though he couldn't remember who'd said it—but, once you've reached a place without words with someone, you've reached a place so special and dear, it becomes indescribable when you're together.

And he believed what they'd said to be true.

But, now, at this moment, there with Murrue, John couldn't think about the comfort the silence brought . . . he could only think about _her_ . . . and _her_ thoughts.

Murrue, on the other hand, busied her fogged mind with a meaningless list of things needed to buy. John cleared his throat needlessly; Murrue looked up to him, but instead of catching his gaze, she saw him looking ahead, face sharp and focused.

Very familiar.

For some reason she couldn't hide a smile.

"Um, Murrue . . . ?" He started, voice edging.

"Hm?"

"Yesterday . . . when I saw you . . . There was something . . . in your hand." She skipped a breath, swallowing down his topic. He turned towards her . . . dark eyes flashing, almost accusing, in curiosity. ". . . What was it?"

"Oh . . ." She swallowed, hands finding each other through the straps of her purse. "_That_. . . ." It was odd. Even though the source of all that earlier pain was no longer there—he, instead, standing beside her—it seemed just the memory alone could wrought her heart.

"It was a locket, John. . . . One made so . . . so I wouldn't . . . '_forget_'. Same with what's inside. . . ."

"'Forget'?" He cocked his head. "Forget what?"

She could only look back.

Though he tried, the man could not hold that spreading smile of surprise when his mind made the connection. He pointed to his chest—a wordless gesture—and Murrue nodded, solemnly reserved.

John cleared his throat needlessly, again—eyes once more traveling the buildings in the other direction.

His voice came quiet, but Murrue could only hear his muttered words—even with the crowds bustling around them.

"I . . . I'd like to see it someday."

"You will," she answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. In fact . . . at that moment, it probably _was_ the simplest thing.

Suddenly, Murrue reached out and grabbed at his arm, pulling him closer. "Oh!—Stop here," she ordered. He would have stopped anyway.

Besides that one contact earlier, the two lovers hadn't even allowed a brush of clothing between them. John's heart fluttered childishly.

Though she grasped only to break his walking, that thought didn't matter as all he could feel was her touch through his jacket sleeves. If only he'd taken off his coat earlier, she'd have gripped bare skin.

"This is it," Murrue said, as the pair stared out into a shopping pedestrian square.

"Hm?" He stared back—as she slowly let her hand slide away.

"We have a lot of places to go today. I haven't had much time lately, so . . . that's why." She swallowed, cheeks invariably pinking, "There are a few . . . _personal_ items I need to buy—and you are _not_ accompanying me for those."

John grinned at her 'comfort.'

"T-This is the center square—it's nice, but there isn't much here that we need. Just that one stop of mine. So . . . if you want, you can stay around here and I'll return to get you when I'm done. Then we can get everything else. 'Kay?"

She smiled nicely at him, sweet but somehow oddly indifferent, before turning to leave his alone in the mass.

John ruffled at his short hair.

"_Hmph_. . . . Maybe you really were a Captain," he mumbled, grinning as she walked off. He followed her leave through the crowd. The body of the woman that he loved was still stunning.

Soon, though, she was lost from all view. He sighed, wondering exactly how long this 'personal shopping' was going to take . . .

John's sharp eyes darted over the busy square. It was the same as it was the day before, when he'd wandered through it. It was the same shopping square that held the flower shop . . .

He quickly ignored the thought . . . where it was leading. He didn't want to think that.

His focus turned back onto the people, scurrying back and forth before him, lost in their own midday-morning lives.

Occasionally the crowds would thin, and he could catch glimpses across the way, but all it took was one flash of hauntingly familiar gold to have John force his way through the people.

"Highly observant" was a term used to describe him—quite frequently. He decided it to be a curse . . . how much he saw and filed away, but there were some things he was glad to notice.

John made it to the café, amber eyes narrowing on his casual target. Storming over, without invitation, he slammed his hand down on the table to get the man's attention.

"_You_ . . ." John muttered, stern, "—Are you _really_ who they say you are?"

Glancing up from his drink, Mu's eyes caught with John's . . . and he smiled.

"Why, good morning. Care to sit, have a drink?" The blond motioned to the empty seat across from him—the one Kira would have sat in, if the boy had had the nerve.

John was caught off balance by the sudden kind treatment. Mu chuckled. "Oh, now don't you say it _too_ . . ." he pouted childishly, eyes turning back to his tall, metal glass as he stirred its contents. "It's _never_ too early for one of _these_. . . ."

Unable to stop himself, John slipped down into the café chair.

Mu took a sip, azure eyes flickering dark to the gentleman across from him.

". . . Just _who_ do they say I am, John?"


	5. All Wrong

Here I am for another "2-chapters" update. _Again_, 15 pages seemed like too long to read through at once, so I split it up into Chapter 5 and 6. (I write _way_ more than need be . . .) Chapter 5 is the shorter of the two. Keep in mind, both of these chapters will have a lot of Out of Character-ness in them. I apologize in advance.

These two chapters were very hard to write (hence the long wait—Sorry!). There was so much to easily "get wrong" that affects the overall believable flow. I may not have done the best of jobs with this, but I hope I did alright. Reviews and critiques are quite welcome.

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**CHAPTER FIVE -- All Wrong.**

"Who?"

His stare, though gentle in its touch, never wavered—not in the least. Ever so slowly, all the strength John had focused began to crack and crumble.

"You _know_ . . ." John countered, fixing his own glare. "_Mu_ . . . _**LaFlaga**._ . . ." Mu kept staring, kept drinking.

"The _Hawk_ . . ." John muttered through gritted teeth. As he drifted off, Mu cocked his head, slightly, waiting for more. The tall, metal glass had rested itself back on the table, though Mu's fingers never left it.

The silence was aggravating to say the least. "_Well_," John snapped, "are you him or not?"

Mu broke into a smile, lifting his drink up for another taste.

"Oh. Mm-hm," he nodded.

All the tension that held John straight broke then, the man's shoulders sagging forward. His face twisted, staring back at his blond counterpart.

"That's _it_?" John gaped.

"What? Were you expecting someone else?"

"Yes." John answered, not skirting around any words. He didn't know how else to put it. Unfortunately, a small crowd of school kids had passed by the table, filling the air with their meaningless chatter. John didn't know whether the blond had heard him at. Probably not, since Mu's expression didn't change. "There's no way someone like you could be—"

"Hm? _Oh_! Sorry, do you want a drink?" Mu cut in politely with a smile, remembering his earlier offer. John blinked. "—They make the best mixes here. I swear to it. This place is the _only_ place you can get one of _these_ . . . _**this** good_." Mu grinned broadly, face shining as he tipped his glass for another gulp. John could only turn his face away, every moment, his view of the man changing.

"Uh . . . No thank you. I'm not thirsty. In fact, I have things I need to talk to you about."

"'Things,' eh?" Mu slurred, understanding completely. "Of course. But before we start talking about 'things,' ya sure about the drink? You don't live around here, right? You should try one of these while you've got the chance—Or I bet you'll regret it." Mu lifted his arm in the air as he spoke, effectively hailing over the same Maitre-D' of the café as before.

John's eyes widened over the blond stranger sitting in front of him.

"No, no, I don't think I'll regret it," John flustered, having to refuse a _second_ time. "I'm very particular when it comes to these things. I—I know I _wont_ like it. Trust me. No."

"Aw, but you should try it anyway," he smiled. "Don't worry. My treat, of course." With Mu's insist, the attendant appeared beside their tiny table, two tall, metal glasses in his steady hands. Setting both of the chilled drinks on the table, the young man picked up Mu's already empty glass, smiling at the blond before disappearing again. Mu chuckled as he instantly claimed his own, leaving the one behind for John to take.

Mu smiled a child's smile as he downed his favorite concoction.

John refrained from gawking.

"There's no way. . . . You can't be him."

"Who?"

John gritted his teeth. He repeated it again—_slower_ this time.

"Mu LaFlaga, the Hawk of Endymion. There's no way you can be the same man as him."

Mu cocked an eyebrow. "Have you met 'him'?"

"N-no."

"Then how do you know 'him'?" he smirked slightly, resigning to his chilled glass and taking a long swig. "_And_ you just said _my_ name was Mu LaFlaga, didn't you? My name'll never change. Nor will my tastes."

"I know enough about him to say that someone like _you_ . . . can never be a soldier like _that_. Just from us talking now."

"So, you're saying that it's possible that—"

"I'm saying it's _im_-possible," John countered.

"Nothing's impossible," Mu grinned back.

"Are you joking? It's impossible that nothing's impossible. . . . especially in _this_ world."

"Believe what you want. I've never been one to argue," Mu shrugged as John looked on. Seeing the other metal glass in the center of the table, he pushed it closer to the other. "Drink up, Kid," Mu muttered—instantly inwardly grinning at his habitual 'mistake.' He wondered if John had noticed, but when Mu glanced over . . . all he could see was a straight, serious man—defiance blazing hatefully within those dark eyes.

"I don't believe that you're the Hawk," John murmured. "And if you really _are_ him, I wont accept it!"

Mu's returning gaze softened.

"But . . . if you really are the Hawk of Endymion, then you _should_ be able to answer this _one_ question," John murmured, sliding his fingertips along the glass tabletop. "You'll answer me?" Mu nodded, curious by the fire he could spot flaming in those amber eyes.

"In the middle of the war, a solider was transferred beneath you. A pilot from our ship. His name was Gale Harding." Mu's laughing eyes flickered in ice—if only for a moment. John leaned forward in his seat, staring Mu down—strength returned as his voice bordered on accusing. ". . . Do you remember him? Tell me, where he is now? What did he go on to do after the war?"

"Gale . . ." Mu sighed. "Yes, I knew him. Sweet kid. . . . A shame."

John stiffened in his chair, easily connecting the words. Mu's heart tugged coldly, for he knew exactly where the conversation was headed.

John closed his fist beneath the table.

"'A _shame'_? That's _all_ you can say? You were his commander, weren't you? The one in charge? He goes down by your watch and all it is, is 'a shame'?" John "Well, I shouldn't be surprised. He was placed under _you_ after all. I hear you went through a lot of it . . . Losing soldiers. If you're such an amazing pilot, don't you think that number would be lower? Or perhaps . . . non-existent?"

"My rank, skill and experience have nothing to do with any of that."

"Oh, so you mean _he_ was the one under-trained? Are you saying he needed more skill? That _all_ of them just 'couldn't match up'? I've read reports I've never wanted to see. Those who don't make it back . . ."

"There is no rhyme nor reason to the casualties of war," Mu interjected quietly. Any one could see that he fought to control his even tone . . . his words coming from experience. John opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

The blue in Mu's eyes softened as he looked over John's face.

"John. . . . Sometimes the most skilled, the most powerful, the most deserving are the ones to be taken away in an instant while the complete _idiots_," Mu suffered a small chuckle, "somehow live to see the end. Those situations can easily be reversed too, you know. The age and skill of young Gale may have been a small factor, but . . . in the end . . . it means nothing. . . . Not in my mind anyway. We can't help who war claims."

"You're _wrong_," John cut in, quiet as well. Even with the street's crowd, the soldiers heard every leveled word. "It _did_ matter. _Then_, skill and age _did_ matter. Gale . . . wasn't the best pilot on the ship. He wasn't even supposed to be transferred off. I mean, if it's something where _you're_—where the _Hawk of Endymion_ is needed, of course they're going to call on the best—due to the danger involved. Right? That's what I would imagine. Why else need the amazing Hawk? He . . . wasn't supposed to be transferred to you. I was."

Mu could only keep himself steady beneath the news. John's voice shook inaudibly as he spoke, memories of the past reliving themselves within his mind.

"I was going to go, but at the last moment, they changed their mind. They needed the best left behind—to protect the ship. Gale may have been second in skill . . . but not a _close_ second. Not at all. Understand? If _I_ was the one transferred, Gale wouldn't have died. It's simple.—He wouldn't have been _there_ to die."

"But do _you_ understand?" Mu countered quietly, trying to control his own emotion. "He . . . _Gale_, could have easily been killed elsewhere, too, right? And besides, if you were there, it could have been you instead."

"No. I'm better than that. _I_ would have lived. Who knows. . . . Maybe _you_ would have been the one to . . ."

There was no reason to finishing. Mu understood exactly what John meant. He wasn't surprised.

Mu sifted in his chair, smoothly adjusting his seating.

"Ah, but where would that leave your ship now?—Without their star flier? How would _they_ be? Perfectly alright? _Or_ . . ." Mu drifted. The was no reason to finishing. John understood.

Mu sighed. "It's truly useless to wonder. There's no way of knowing. I've already said that there is no rhyme nor reason to who war claims. Listen. If you _had_ been transferred . . . _in_ that battle, instead of Gale, you _may_ have lived through it. I believe that. But you could have also easily died."

Mu's truth finally made John's eyes flicker away, unable to stand the heated gaze any longer. Mu sighed, shaking his head. His own eyes drifted off, lazily landing across the square, behind John.

". . . It doesn't change, does it?" The blond muttered. "That . . . odd, guilt-ridden happiness you feel? When you think about that 'what if' you somehow feel happy . . . because _he_ was the one . . . instead of you."

John stiffened in his seat, eyes wide with the accusation. He couldn't believe it . . . how . . . true? Mu, on the other hand, slowly shifted his vision back to reality. To see John sitting there, that way . . . it made Mu smile. A sad, _knowing_ smile.

"Don't worry about it. Every soldier thinks that way at least once. More than twice."

. . . Silence . . .

John struggled to find words to say back, but none of them would hold a minute beneath the weight of what had been said. The words spoken, they reverberated in each man's mind—hanging, haunting. Mu blinked at the sudden void before breaking into a crack of laughter.

"_What_? What am I saying? The _last_ thing two ex-soldiers need to talk about is war.—Sorry." Apology said, Mu reached and quickly emptied his glass. John's face turned.

". . . '_Ex_'-soldier? You mean . . . ?"

"Hm?" Mu glanced up. "—_Ah_! You haven't touched it yet! Aw, come on, not even a little taste?"

John became instantly confused. Mu pouted. "Not even to try?"

"I'm fine without it," he scowled. He had 'declined' the same thing three times already.—Or was it four?

"Trust me, you'll want this. Take a risk, eh? I see, is it too much for you? Yeah, they do make really tall glasses here. . . ." Mu reached forward, hands clasping around the two metal glasses, pulling them closer. ". . . You mind?"

"N-No . . ."

"Good. See, maybe you'll try it now, when there's less in the glass to look at," Mu grinned, pouring 'a bit' of the beverage from John's glass into his own, empty canister. Thick, white and nowhere near smooth, it slowly ran through the air between them. John nearly jumped when he saw.

"_What_ is that?"

Mu cocked his head, confused, sipping at his fave mix.

"Hm? I thought you knew when you refused it." He began to laugh. "Can't you tell? It's _ice cream_!"

John deflated in his chair, suddenly lost. He struggled to keep his composure, since he hadn't been doing as good a job of it as he wanted.

He had expected some form of liquor, at the very least, by the way Mu was going at it. _Hard_ liquor.—Mu only grinned, tossing some golden curls from his face.

"Yep, like I said, it's never too early in the day for ice cream.—Nor is one ever too old," he teased, playfully, unable to stop himself from the subtle jab at John. "But . . . They really do make the best drinks here. You would have known that if you had tried it before, hm?"

John brushed at his short hair. Sitting there, like this, with this man, talking over chilled metal glasses filled with drinks mixed with ice cream, of _all_ things . . . Nothing seemed right, yet . . . nothing seemed wrong.

Yet everything was wrong.

John's focus drifted from Mu, to his ticking watch, to Mu's tanned face again, up and over his mop of golden hair and on out through the thinned out crowd behind him. Almost lazily, his sharp eyes flicked from one stranger's face to another, until . . . they caught a vision he could never consider as a "stranger".

John instantly pushed himself to his feet.

_Murrue!_

She was moseying about across the square, sliding a small shopping bag into her purse, pushing some stray hair behind her ear. There was do doubt it was her.

John glanced down to see Mu staring up from his seat, bemused confusion riddling the younger man's eyes.

"S-Sorry," John apologized—instantly hating for how he completely belittled himself to . . . him. "I have to be going now. Many things to do today. Errands."

Mu chuckled. "Then _go_." John took a step. "_Wait_!" John looked back; Mu was grinning, pointing to the metal glass across the table.

"Aren't you going to finish this?"

"N-No. You can have it," John muttered, wanting to get away. Part of him feared Mu would turn around as he left. If Mu turned around . . . he would certainly see _her_ too. But John was lucky—Mu only lit up, grabbing the creamy drink.

"Really? Ya sure?"

"Yes . . ." John left again. This time, though, he made it a couple steps before he heard Mu's voice. However . . . it was . . . strained.

"John . . . Wait."

He turned. Mu was sitting in his café chair, fingers laced before his chin, looking away intentionally. His back was still turned to John, and John could not see his face, either. Neither moved to be seen.

"John. What you're worried about . . . don't be."

"What?" John was breathlessly confused. "What are y—?"

He could hear Mu's wry smile slip its way into his tone as he reached for John's glass to sip. "I could never replace you."

John flared, but the strong amber of his eyes _broke_. With his best accusing voice, John took a step closer. "_How_? How are you so sure of that?"

A wry laugh. "Simple.— . . . I've never tried."

John watched as Mu turned in his seat, just enough to lock his light eyes with John's. John watched as Mu tried to flash that grin—that laughingly, knowing grin—but failed. John watched and could recognize the attempt from that time he'd been with Mu in the flower shop. It was the same basic grin, but the emotion behind it was gone.

So, even the Hawk of Endymion had moments of emotion he couldn't completely smooth over with composure. It may have been only a flicker, but it was still there.

When John left Mu for the second time, everything was suddenly different. Mu's quiet words brought forward every thought that had run through John's mind _before_. Coming away from that 'chat,' John could only realize that _everything_ he had sat down wanting to say . . . _never_ came to light. Somehow, the conversation had become _not_ under his control. Somehow that man had steered everything that was spoken to . . .

John coughed in the center square, unable to process it.

The Hawk of Endymion had done the impossible. Murrue wasn't even mentioned until _after_ it became an _afterthought_ . . . ?

---

With John gone, Mu reached down into his pocket, fishing out a small box. He popped open the velvet casing, eyes softly flickering over its contents.

The diamond sparkled in the mid-morning sun, reflecting it's brilliance onto everything.

"It's blue," he sighed. "_Blue_. . . . I gave her—"

"Sir?" The attendant broke in, awkwardly standing there. He pointed towards the two metal glasses on the table. "Are you done?"

Mu looked up from the ring and nodded.

". . . Yes. I'm done."

The box clicked close.

---

When he found Murrue again, John could only look through the store's window. Part of him didn't want to enter. But, with a tight sigh, John walked into the flower shop. Sour memories flashed back, but they all became just shadows in his mind, when he saw:

Murrue, unaware _he_ was the one who'd entered, was still immersed in a small stand of roses, displaying all the different shades and hues they could be found in. Her fingers never left the soft velvet petals of the reddest one.

The pain shot at him, as he watched, recognizing the flower from the bouquet _that man_ had chosen for her.

John swallowed, gathering his voice.

"Red roses, huh?"

Murrue jumped and spun around, eyes catching with John's as she whispered his name. He attempted to smile.

"I didn't know you were so . . . '_old-fashioned_' . . ." The other man's words rolled over John's tongue, unnatural to the taste. Murrue didn't seem to notice his pause and just smiled with the memory.

Her fingers ran over the red rose.

"Hm. People have told me how red is my color, and I guess that just been transferred over to flowers too. . . ."

"Heh, people like _Mu_?" John muttered, dark.

Murrue's bright eyes flickered into sadness—if only for a moment. She breathed down a sigh.

"_No_, John. . . . People like _you_."

He blinked, mouth open. "What?"

"Don't worry," Murrue 'smiled', assuring with a small shrug. "I can see why you might not remember. . . . It's been long time since then, after all. Any one would forget, right?" John's mind whirled, blurring everything as he struggled to find his words.

"But—But I distinctly remember you saying _blue_—!"

"For you, John," she corrected, softly. "Dark blue is a nice color for _you_. . . ."


	6. Change

Part two of this "2-part chapter" update! Yep, meet the longer of the two! More hard-for-me-to-write stuff follows . . . so I hope I did alright. Sorry for any and all Out of Character-ness.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX -- Change.**

It wasn't that late by the clock, but early night had already come down upon Orb, enveloping all in the shadowy darkness. The thick clouds from the night before had dispersed, leaving only a starry sky and close-to-full moon.

John and Murrue walked together in the silence of the night, soft conversations stopping for the moment. He shifted, fixing his hold of Murrue's bag in his hand. She immersed herself in her own musings, hands gripped around the handle of another bag of stuff she'd bought. It had turned out to be a very nice day, and Murrue smiled for that, but . . .

Her mind kept coming back to the empty silence of the present.

She glanced up and over to his handsome face, illuminated in the moonlight, but John was too busy gazing at the stars to notice her stare.

"It's so beautiful." He muttered, finally. "The moon makes it look like there's snow on the ground, it's so bright. . . . And the _stars_, they . . ." He turned to her, instantly grinning. "I—I've never seen anything like it, Murrue. I never thought it could be like this on the _ground_."

Murrue smiled at the return of the young look to his weathered face. John's amber eyes had become wide enough that she could see the stars reflected in them. Memories drifted, and she could remember the stars flashing in his eyes up in Space—as vividly as if it were only that morning. Even so, his awe at the moment made her laugh.

"So, I take it you've never been to Orb before?"

"Heh, of course." He returned, casually stern as ever. "I would _never_ come here—if it wasn't for _you_." John smiled for her, believing in his compliment. Murrue on the other hand, had to turn her gaze away—fearful of what he might see in her half-lidded eyes.

Unable to hold back, _it_ came out soft, and quiet. "Oh. . . . So that means you're still with . . ."

"Yep," he grinned, turning towards her, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Chest out with pride, John's hand came up in mock-salute. "You're speaking to the man next in line to be named a Vice Admiral for the Seventh Orbital Fleet. One of the fastest rising soldiers in the entire Earth Forces, they say, too. And for a good reason! I'm second _only_ in—" His face instantly fell; he turned it away. "N-never mind."

Murrue didn't hear his odd falter—she had already stopped listening. Suddenly awkward in her stumbling, Murrue's eyes dashed over the pavement before her.

"W-wow, John. . . . You've sure gotten far. Con- . . . Congratulations." Murrue was thankful for the dark, though despised the illuminating moon. She couldn't understand the sudden pain she felt behind her eyes, and she couldn't seem to hide it. It didn't make any sense. . . . or did it? What she was feeling . . . she couldn't place. She could only continue on with the conversation, not wanting it to stop. But, then again, why would she be afraid of stopping?

"Seems like the military's become . . . a _career_ for you now, has it?"

John's ears perked at her tone—instantly reading what she didn't say. His giddy face darkened.

"Hey, hey. . . . Don't give me that look," he muttered, getting her to turn to him. Their eyes met with confusion in the night, his glaring down into hers. "I know _exactly_ what you're thinking, Murrue, and—and it isn't like that!" He defended, sharp eyes tilting angrily, suddenly emotional at her comprehension. "Of _course_ it's become a career for me! What else could it be? I'm a military man through and through.—You _know_ that!"

His gaze instantly softened as he bit back his outburst. His fist clenched as his temper checked. As if it had been for always, the darkness of his eyes cleared away, leaving only an unclouded . . . love.

John tilted his head slightly to Murrue.

"_Sure_ . . . there are those _other_ guys who are things like lawyers and gardeners when not at war, but I don't _have_ that to fall back upon. This is the only thing I've known, Murrue. The only thing I have.—Besides you."

_Smile_.

"And _besides_, during peace time, the only way you can go is up, right? Isn't that what we all want? To get to the top?" He stared back at her, his eyes never leaving her face.

The pair had reached a lamp-post of a street corner, and so now he could look upon every single aspect of her soft face—every aspect the moonlight alone seemed to hide. Murrue's eyes were cast away, flickering up to his waiting face for but a moment before dashing away. Beneath the light, her skin seemed so smooth it was almost inhuman. Her lips so full . . . her hair utterly gracing . . .

John held down a breath.

She was so close, he could _touch_ her, _kiss_ her, _hold_ her hand at the _very_ least . . . yet again he could only inch away. There was something in the way those eyes _didn't_ sparkle that seemed to chill him in the less than warm night.

"Isn't that what we all want?" He repeated, slowly—studying the way her expression changed.

"I guess . . . you really _are_ right, John. Sorry." Murrue shook her head slightly before continuing on down her street, out of the lamp light and back into the moonlight. John caught up to her after a few strides. He placed a faint hand on her shoulder—needing no force to make her pause.

"Did I . . . say something wrong?"

"Hm?" Murrue looked back to him, seeing only that odd 'young worry' of his. She curled her lips into a simple smile, telling him all her needed to know.

"_No_, no, John. Why would you think that?"

"Because you've never been the submissive type."

He bit his lip, not letting her see it. He may have been a little harsher than meant—but it was true to him. He watched her blink her return as his tone turned breathless. "_You_ . . . could _never_ be that, Murrue.—Not in the least. Sure, sometimes you may seem that way, but truly, you're more like _fire_. Yes, a _blaze_ that . . ."

John's awed strength suddenly weakened. He turned to her, face twisting slightly as the hand on her shoulder pressed.

"Are you alright . . . ?" He asked, trying hard to hide his difficulty swallowing. It didn't seem to work. He tried again to force down the jumble of words in his mouth. ". . . With _me_ being here . . . ?"

"John," Murrue sighed, unable to not smile. ". . . It's—It's _not_ . . . Uh—_Don't_ . . . Hm—I _mean_ . . ."

With every pause, the frustration showed itself more and more as the former-Captain struggled with her delicate words. When John sighed beside her, she envisioned that soft, strong smile of his beaming down on her. When she looked up however, he only began to laugh. Softly, and as a chuckle, but _laugh_ nonetheless.

"You're _thinking_ too much, Murrue. Again." She cocked her head, off-set by his conclusion. "You _know_ that'll never be too good for you in the long run."

John shrugged, knowing smile lighting up his amber eyes. "But . . . then again, I doubt that'll ever change. It's a major part of you, after all. She really _was_ right when she said that must have been why we fit so well. . . ."

Murrue's ears were careful not to miss the subtle addition to his words.

"'She'?"

"C'mon! I mean _Nessa_!" Murrue was surprised by how much his face lit up with only the name. John could only grin. "Remember her, Murrue? She said that my never-thinking-strong-temper and your always-thinking-strong-calm seemed to be what made up a lot of '_us'_.—And I guess she would know, right? Always hanging around the two of us. Not that you or I minded . . . such a sweet girl."

Murrue mused the choice. _"Strong . . . calm" . . . ?_ She pushed the confusing thought away as her memories drifted back to the beautiful, young soldier they'd known.

"You've kept in touch with her? How is she now?"

His smile instantly faltered. John's full hands somehow found his pockets, his eyes drifting away.

"I . . . I couldn't say. After you left, she became . . . cold." His gaze fixed to the pavement, his eyes narrowed in a rare emotion Murrue could only remember seeing once. John shook his head, breathing a sigh. "_Nothing_ like before. You'd be surprised, I think.—_Ah_," he chased the thought away. "I think she changed because the person she looked up to the most wasn't there anymore to show her what to do." John winked, nudging Murrue a bit. "Right? _Right_?"

A soft smile played with her lips at the thought. Murrue could only roll her eyes.

"I'm no role model."

John stopped in his tracks, seriousness pouring from every bit of him.

Another sudden change in his demeanor . . . Again.

It was all silence as he muttered to her . . . in the dark. . . . "_You're more than you know_."

She gasped. She couldn't help it. Let alone the words . . . his voice alone was enough to chill her spine in the night. John's eyes flashed darkly with her obvious surprise. "What? I thought for sure Endy would have told you _that_ one already."

"—Don't call him that," she instantly warned, tone meaning everything. "Why?" He sneered, not receiving the hint, the conversation taking a turn for the worse. "What do _you_ call him? 'Sweetie'? '_Hunnybuns'_?"

Murrue turned only to glare at him.

If looks could kill.

"Odd . . ." she started, venom in her tone. "I seem to recall a certain _name_ given to _you_ before I came along. . . . Now . . . what was it again?"

"You . . . You wouldn't _dare_," he threatened, but his ears were already red in embarrassment from only remembering.

Murrue's silence was his only answer, and it could have been taken two ways.

"Okay, okay!" He surrendered. "I understand! Bad topic for either of us—_especially_ when you have leverage. I shouldn't have ever told you about that, Murrue!"

Murrue cleared her throat, pace quickening slighting in her grumble.

"I can see what she meant when she said 'never-thinking' . . ."

He began to laugh, knowing how right she must have been. But . . . when he opened his eyes, he saw a familiar door, Murrue's hand on the handle.

"—Oh . . . Guess this is good-night, then," he sighed, heart already pained from seeing her go so soon, as if spending the day wasn't enough. Too short. . . . though it was after dark and he'd spent the _entire_ day. John placed the one bag of hers he carried by her feet.

Murrue wet her lip, delaying what she wanted to say.

"Um, John . . . ?" Her eyes drifted slightly, never actually meeting his face. ". . . Who is it that you know in Orb? You've _got_ to be staying somewhere . . . right?"

He grinned.

"Ah, there's this tiny hotel a ways from here. Don't worry about it. It's nice because the bus that stops around the corner _here_ stops around the corner _there_ too. It's really good that way, but . . . the bus schedule . . ." He laughed weakly, remembering his struggles. ". . . is _so_ hard to figure out. I don't know how _anyone_ can read it."

"So, you're fine with getting back? After dark?" Her words were clipped, yet her tone was soft. John blinked at the words, heart suddenly speeding. He looked up to Murrue and smiled—trying to hold back what he really wanted to say.

"I'm fine," he swallowed, evenly. "Thank you for asking."

"That's good. . . ." Silence. "Good night, John."

"'Night."

After Murrue closed the door, John stayed stunned for a moment. His face heated with excitement before he turned, running towards the bus-stop down the street. The long bus had just pulled up, its lights beckoning all travelers. As John slipped into a seat, he wondered faintly about whether this bus was the last bus of the night or not. . . . He still had trouble with the schedule.

But all that didn't really matter—not with other things to think about, anyway.

-----------

About a half-an-hour or so had passed since Murrue had closed the door on John. Though her mind and body were both extremely tired, she hadn't even _sat down _yet. All Murrue could seem to do was pace about her cozy house. She didn't really understand why.

Her coat and errand bags lay forgotten over the chair, and her stomach kept grumbling for anything to eat. She hadn't had a bite since that early lunch with John . . . Even so, Murrue never stopped moving. She thought about making herself something, but every time she steered her steps in the direction of her kitchen, she would find herself going the other way. She wrung her hands, thinking . . . debating. . . .

A few seconds more and she'd made up her mind.

Murrue ran to the chair, pulling on her coat. Though the time wasn't late on the clock, it was still quite dark outside, and she'd never been one to walking alone like that. She would just have to hurry. He still had her only flashlight.

Throwing the door open, a cool night breeze brushed across her, pulling at her hair, rippling at her skirt and coat. The outer-light of the house cast a soft glow on the surrounding area—lighting up the walkway until it just connected with the street.

Murrue instantly bit back her heart—pounding in fear. Her eyes had landed upon a figure of a man standing there before her. Because of his placement, he was cast in shadow. Murrue could only think to run, but she couldn't seem to move. He mind pounded with fear. Who would be there? Why?

It took only a moment more for Murrue's eyes to accustom themselves to the night, but that single moment was one of the most petrifying.

She could finally make out his face.

He looked about as startled as she felt.

"_Mu_!" Murrue gasped in relief, finally registering the man who stood on her walkway. "Mu, I . . . I was just going to your—"

"Well," he grinned, quickly moving forward to set himself before her front stoop. "Great minds think alike after all."

Murrue couldn't answer him, all of her focus going into regulating her heartbeat—which didn't seem so hard now that Mu was there. Mu on the other hand . . . his grin faltered slightly in the emptiness.

He coughed, clearing his throat.

"Here." He roughly held up a bag, high in her face. "This is for you."

Standing there, Mu never looked more different. Holding out the bulging plastic bag with one arm, stiff as ever into her face, the other hand found its solace stuffed deep in his pocket. The childish discomfort was _clear_ in his tainted cheeks . . . if one was lucky enough to see them, at least. The rest of his handsome face was tucked away, eyes locked onto a dry leaf blown right beyond his shoe, the bitten lip kept from sight by way of his breeze-tossed blond.

Murrue didn't know whether to be confused or amused by his sudden actions. Slowly she reached up, puzzled as she threaded the bag handles from his fingers. Her eyes never left him—not even to glance inside what he had given her.

It took a bit, but soon his eyes had made their way up to her. Murrue didn't understand it. Since when had he been so . . . shy? She could just make out the lasting effects his awkward blush had left, and it made her smile.

Mu cleared his throat again, working on a playful smile.

"I promised you dinner yesterday, remember? Even though I am a day late . . . I don't really like going back on my word. . . . here."

Murrue finally looked down, cautiously glancing inside the plastic sac. She could spot several tightly packed containers, brimming with food.

"Yeah," Mu chuckled to himself. ". . . Though I _did_ promise you dinner, I doubt you'll want to eat _any_ of that," he warned, a wry grin pushing through as he regained himself. All it took was a bit of time.

"Now, Murrue . . . It took me a while, but I think I have all the ingredients right for everything, and . . . Oh! None of it's burned!" He beamed, triumphant . . . face soon falling. "But . . . it's probably all _under_cooked then, since I took everything out _early_ not wanting to burn it. It's annoying how it works out that way, no?"

He sighed, right hand finding that place on the base of his neck. Murrue could have laughed, trying to imagine the blond man cooking like that.

"I hope it's all warm enough for you, too. I didn't want to risk taking the time and walking over incase it all cooled too much, so I took the bus to get here faster. Though I didn't know if that was any help. First time for me, riding a bus.—In all my years? Amazing, huh? The schedule was _so_ hard to figure out . . . but I got myself here so I must have been right somehow."

Mu's gentle laugh drifted off into the darkness. Murrue would have laughed too, if not for the sudden shock of familiarity in his words. She forced her own swallow, looking back down to the bag in her hands.

"All of this . . . for me?"

"Well, _yes_!" Mu grinned, pure delight in the idea. Somehow, seeing him like that made her own heart flutter.

"Well . . . thank you." She turned to open the door, but paused when she didn't hear the familiar plod of his steps to follow. Murrue looked at him, still standing below her, below the stoop.

". . . Aren't you going to come in?"

The hand in Mu's pocket tightened its grip.

"Ah . . . _no_." He took a step back from the door, laughing. "I should really be getting home. Kinda left the door unlocked again, you know?—Stupid habits. I even brought your light back to return to you, but, I'm going to need it for the walk home . . . Sorry. I took the last bus up here. They stop really early this time of year," he rambled.

Murrue raised an eyebrow, thoughts going back to the clock.

"What about your _own_ dinner? Have you _eaten_ yet?"

"Of course! _Tons_! Not this stuff, though," Mu assured, motioning towards his bag of concoctions. "Take-out food and such. Filled me right up."

He patted his stomach to prove a point. But it was then his stomach decided to growl . . . quite loudly . . . gurgling in the night.

At his body's betrayal, Mu swore quite loudly in his head. Murrue's eyes narrowed, thin slits of annoyance coming through.

"Come. Inside. _Now_." A Captain stood before him again, as if the war had never indeed ended.

"Y-Yes, Ma'am," was all he said, her tone chilling his resolve as he skirted inside. As if Mu would attempt to walk away . . . when she was like that.

Without a word, Murrue ushered Mu through the tiny first room of her house and into the second one. The humble kitchen, lit up in the darkness, seemed as inviting as ever.

"_Sit_."

Murrue pointed towards the cleared table as she began to fiddle with the bag he'd given her. With a swallow, he sat down, his immediate discomfort falling to the familiar 'warmth' of the place. Though he sat at the table, Mu swiveled back around to face into the kitchen. The first glance told him one thing—not a single blossom bloomed in his sight. Upon his second look over, he could see past to kitchen's counter where Murrue was standing, dealing his food . . . quite harshly . . . to a plate.

"You know, you're scary when you're angry," he teased from the chair—unable to control himself.

"And you're scary when you're scared. . . ." she muttered beneath her breath, words meant only for her ears . . . but Mu overheard.

"'_Scared'_?" He laughed, brow furrowing as she set the plate before him. "Who said I'm scared?—I'm _never_ scared!" He boasted, scooping up a forkful of his food and shoving it into his mouth.

_Then_ the taste of it hit his tongue.

Mu instantly curled forward in his seat, whimpering like a puppy, as he struggled to swallow.

". . . without a reason . . . at least. . . ." He looked around the table, desperate for water to clean out his mouth. Murrue couldn't resist a giggle at the 'child' before her. She made her way to his side.

"Hmph, let me see that," she ordered, taking the fork from Mu's hand. She reached over onto his plate and scooped up the same amount of the white stuff that he had, placing it all in her mouth.

Mu gaped at her resolve.

"Mm. I _like_ it," she smiled, reaching over to his plate for another taste. "It's honestly better than I thought it would be."

Mu could only stare, child eyes wide with enlightenment.

"You're insane," he muttered, quiet. "There's no way around it.—You're insane."

She laughed at his accusation. At him, with him. She laughed, more than the tiny giggle she'd been allowing herself lately. With that laugh, that break, all the emotion she'd kept in that day—joy, laughter, anger and sadness—all of it just . . . _spilled_ out, all in the form of one.

Tears.

They spilled down her smooth cheeks, slowly stopping the chuckles that escaped her. She looked at her wet hands, confused.

". . . What? Why am I . . . ?"

"_Murrue_ . . ."

Mu went to stand up, but faltered, reasoning holding him back. He angrily stayed seated, but the hand he'd kept in his pocket furiously dug around within the folds. He pulled out a small handkerchief and held it before her face. Murrue didn't take it from him, for instead she slipped into the chair beside, tears still slowly streaming for no reason.

Mu, face solemn, began to wipe away at her face, gathering her cries in the cloth.

_Murrue . . . you're stretched thinner than I thought . . . It's my fault._

Murrue bit back a tiny gasp, noticing how the hand caring for her was loosely bandaged.

_Mu . . . your hand. . . . what . . . ? You must have burned it when . . . It's my fault._

"There, all done," he announced softly, pulling the handkerchief away. It was only then did Murrue realize she had stopped crying.

Mu, though his reasoning held him physically back, couldn't hide away the melting worry in his face or tone.

He brushed away some wayward auburn bang that fell into her red eyes.

"Murrue . . . At the _moment_, are you alright?"

She could only look back into that face . . . that face so soft and caring—so alive, so serious, so familiar, so _wild_ . . . so much of everything, she was always amazed by that face.

"Y-yes," she muttered into her lap. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

He stood up, stretching his legs, placing some space between them. He drifted over to her kitchen counter, hands busy folding the handkerchief again.

"Don't be. Don't be sorry. We all need a good cry once in a while. It keeps us sane after all." Mu smiled back at her. "Sometimes that's the only way we can let things out. But . . . as we get older . . . it becomes harder. Which is why it's so important, then, no?"

Murrue could only breathe—but even _that_ in turn was difficult as his crystal blue eyes softly rained down upon her.

"Murrue," he murmured, soft and gentle, like a father's lullaby. "But I believe that this is just a prelude. You hold a lot on your shoulders, you know. You're strong."

"Mu . . . ?"

"What I mean is . . . you can always cry to me, Murrue. Hah, I don't mind if my shoulder gets wet. I'll be there, whatever happens." As his eyes washed over her, softly, Murrue had to wonder about the un-placed emotion she saw brimming in those blue eyes.

The silent tension in the air . . . wasn't unfelt.

Mu turned back his focus to the counter—with all his "food" spread out on the stone. He couldn't control the anger he'd suddenly felt for himself. He just had to go and ruin such a perfect moment . . . and turn it into something so . . .

His thoughts pushed away as his eyes landed on the "white-stuff" Murrue had been spooning earlier. Mu cocked an eyebrow at it.

"Say . . . Murrue?" he slurred, breaking the silence, sour whine to his tone. "Are you _really_ going to eat _all_ of this?"

He held up the tub to show her.

"Of _course_," Murrue defended, with a sigh. "_You_'re the one better at this than you think."

"Oh, really . . . ?" Mu slipped on a sly grin, holding up another tub—this one filled with . . . something . . . drowning in a "less-than-smooth" blood red sauce. "Then I bet you wont even _touch_ this one."

Murrue hesitated for only a moment in answering, eyes locked on the 'bubbling' dressing. Mu took full advantage. "See!" he taunted. "I told you so! You don't want to touch it."

"No! No! I _going_ to say—"

"—'_Going_ to say' means nothing, Murrue," he taunted, grinning. "It only means it if you say it!"

Murrue instantly produced a come back—making _Mu_ the one to hesitate. She laughed at his gaping stall.

It was odd . . . how 'comfortable' everything seemed then. How _right_. How it wasn't right at all. Yet . . . Somehow . . .

Murrue could still feel the wetness of her eyes lingering on her lashes. In the back of her mind, a painful thought played toying-ly with her. The two situations, then and the day before . . . Both were right after . . .

_Have I ever actually **cried** in front of John?_

As she played with _him_ over "dinner" . . . she had never tried harder.—But . . . she couldn't remember.

---

Mu laughed with her—amazed at how everything had 'flowed'.

He could feel his steady breathing clashing with the oddly fast pace of his heart. Somehow, throughout the joy the warm house was enveloped in . . . his soft eyes darted about, between the pair.

The gently blue was screwed with questions it had yet to betray.

As he played with _her_ over "dinner" . . . he had never been more confused.

* * *

**A/N:** Here's to those times in all our lives when we've stretched ourselves too thin, and it takes its toll. 

There's this one line in this chapter where what John's saying gets cut off (on purpose). I faintly wonder to what people think he was about to say . . . if anything at all.

PS: Hmm, next chapter . . . looking over what I have planned, I honestly don't think Mu appears at _all_? (utter shock)


	7. John

Okay. First off, this chapter is _long_. I couldn't really size it down at all . . . **_sorry_**. Secondly, I'm so sorry if it seems like Swiss Cheese at points. I had a reason for setting it up like this, and I tried hard to get it to flow anyway. . . . It should be understandable. If not—_please_ tell me.

Notes of Importance: Keep in mind that the 'past' spans _quite_ a while. It's not all condensed or anything. Also I've taken several liberties with certain points—though I hope it's all right.

Here it is, a chapter without Mu in it. (Which isn't really true . . . he actually comes up one or twice . . .) But this really is the first GS/D chapter I've written where Mu isn't either "the subject" or an occurring character. . . . I really need to write some other characters.

* * *

**Chapter Seven — John**

"Murrue!" He called, grinning her name, as he ran down the otherwise empty hallway. She quickly spun around, but to _his_ gaining speed, she seemed slow. "Murrue, Murrue!" He laughed, finally bounding close enough. Within moments she was up in the air, being swung around, John's strong arms keeping her up by the waist as her feet kicked in the air, begging for solid ground.

The surprise was obvious in her features—as well as the deep red.

"John! Put me _down_!" She hissed, grateful for the isolated setting.

"No!" He grinned, but _dropped_ her anyway, catching her in his arms wedding-style. Murrue's nails dug into his uniformed arm—utterly shaken by the sudden feeling of falling.

If he hadn't caught her . . .

"Murrue, guess what?" John beamed, his childish excitement a bit off-setting with his age.

"W-what?" She managed out—still a bit frazzled from the drop. She hadn't yet noticed how he still held her up off the floor.

If anyone saw them . . .

"I was promoted! I'm a lieutenant now!—Well, 'Lieutenant, Junior Grade', but it's still a _promotion_, right?"

His words finally brought Murrue to focus. She looked up into his delighted face and found herself smiling back—the sight of him being so happy could only warm her heart and soul.

"Congratulations, John."

"I know!" He laughed. "'Lieutenant John Anthony' . . . No—'Lieutenant John R. Anthony'. . . It even _sounds_ perfect, doesn't it, Murrue? Like there's a roll to it?"

"Yes, maybe," Murrue muttered in return, eyebrow raising as she finally noticed he still held her up, wedding-style. She reached out to swat at the arm gripping her legs. "But, John . . ."

"'_But'_?" His face gently screwed as he set her straight again. Feet stably grounded, she worked on straightening her uniform, but his hands never left her waist, making it difficult as he held her close. Murrue looked up, face softly serious, while her eyes brimmed with happiness even so.

"_But_ . . . Don't you think you're being a bit _too_ excited?" She cautioned.

"What do you mean . . . ?—This means I'm one step closer to where I need to be! This is _great_!" He pulled her into a tight embrace, hug lasting only a few moments.

Once he left her, his hands found hers, and in his excitement he swung them both back and forth. "_And_ I'm officially a higher rank than _you_ are, Murrue!" He grinned—then faltered, leaning forward peering into her eyes. "You don't . . . _mind_, do you?"

"No," she laughed, "I'm happy for you."

"Good," he nodded forcefully. "Because, you know, you'll probably never get any higher than Lieutenant, or Lieutenant Commander, with your disposition, right? . . . but _me_, I can _go_ places! You're going to be looking up to me a lot more in the future, Murrue."

". . . Yes, yes, I suppose so," she softly smiled, running her hand lightly along his collar. It was at times like this when you just _had_ to agree with him. . . . That self-orientation of his would never seem to change. . . .

"But, really, thank you."

Murrue blinked, looking up, eyes wide.

"'Thank you'? What did _I_ do?"

"For being there," John murmured quietly, awkwardly. "I . . . still have a long way to go after this.—'Lieutenant, Junior Grade' isn't high at all—And I know you'll be there with me through out all of it, just like you've been there with me so far. . . ." Murrue looked off to the side, down the hallway with all of its doors. John smiled, swooping forward to leave her a small peck on the cheek. "Thank you."

Murrue instantly flushed red, hand coming up to where he'd kissed her. John laughed.

"You're still not used to it?" He wondered slyly, shuffling forward—sending Murrue shuffling back. With the greatest ease, he moved in, kissing her again, coaxing the lips.

One of the doors in the hall-strip creaked open, Murrue instantly pushing John away to wipe at her mouth. Out stepped the Captain, suited to the best degree, of whom they both saluted.

"Sir!"

The older man looked at the pair, eyes flicking between John's solemn face and Murrue's solemn face—slightly pinked. He finally waved his hand in dismissal, walking away down the hall.

"Carry on," he sighed, fixing his cap.

When the Captain had left, John laughed. He turned to see Murrue, but she wasn't there. . . .

"Hm? Murrue?"

He was alone in the hallway.

"Murrue? Where'd-ja go?"

----------

**PRESENT:**

John pushed himself up, out of bed, sighing with the fond memories. Fixing himself a glass of water, he sat back down again, this time facing the tiny TV in the tiny room. He flicked it on, making the final pass into boredom. He kept switching around until he came upon an early morning news program.—_That_ made him smile.

John took a tiny sip as he eyed the screen and the top news items—though nothing came of real interest. The folder still sat upon his desk, and since coming to Orb, he hadn't really done _any_ of the work asked of him.

_But it's_ **_Murrue_** . . . He whined to himself, standing up to get the manila package of duty.

He was rustling around the stack of papers when a young voice came from the television, gasping in delight

"_Oh, look! It's snowing!_" John perked his ears, stepping back to see the screen. "_It's beautiful!_" A young couple stood together on a busy street, both bundled up in the imagined cold as tiny fake flakes started coming down around them.

"_Maybe_," the man shrugged. "_But I can think of something even more beautiful._"

"_Oh, stop it_!" She blushed at the over-used line. She tried to push him away, playfully, but her hand landed on his and she paused. Unearthing his hand, the man showed the woman a small white box.

"_Isn't it true?_" He muttered, popping it open. The woman gasped, smiling uncontrollably at the contents.

It flicked to the next scene, the couple is kissing fiercely in the Square as it snows—all attention focused on the sparkling diamond now resting on the third finger of her left hand.

As the couple and the snow and the street faded away, a smooth voice whispered the commercial's slogan: "Life starts here. 'With Love'."

John immediately turned it off, flat scowl to his face. Staring into the blackness of the screen, he could feel his heart tear its way down into his stomach, and the acids of his stomach then mash at his heart.

Why hadn't he realized it before? That first day . . .

_"Why would you go out of your way to help me?" _— _Mu raised an eyebrow and paused, thinking the answer himself. His eyes flashed down to his coat pocket, where his fingers were fumbling around. He took the box out, flicked it open, then snapped it shut in a matter of movements. Looking back up to the man before him, Mu grinned. ". . . I'm in a good mood today."_ _Even though it were only for a moment, John saw the small flash of the box and the diamond inside. He grinned back, knowing exactly what made this stranger so bouncy._

_"Name's John Anthony," he smiled, extending his hand friendlily—which Mu shook, quite forcibly, in return._

John attempted to breathe, finding it all the more difficult in his tiny little room. Reality beating down just as the dawn's rays beat through the petite window, he swallowed, painfully.

"He has . . . a ring?" John murmured aloud, voice shaking ever so slightly. "Does that mean . . . ? . . . It's _that_ serious?—No, no, he _believes_ it's that serious.—But . . . then again . . . there's got to be a reason to _why_ he believes that, right? Right?"

John blinked at the folder of work still resting on the desk.

"But, that would mean . . . _Murrue_ . . ."

----------

**PAST:**

The 'locker room' of the ship could deafen, the noises made up of the mass of soldiers, their excited chatter and the loud rustle of clothes being changed.

"Look at all of them," he mumbled, waving his hand at the rest of the pilots. The young, ragged man sighed, leaning back onto his closed locker. "It always amazes me how over-manned our ship is. I mean, aren't there _rules_ about that?"

John laughed in agreement as he busied himself by checking his helmet.

"You're right. Even _Murrue's_ got two jobs. Since she can work in the Bridge and also in the Hangar, they make her. Says it 'keeps the strength of her skills up.' The truth is they just don't want to waste her talents.—Or have too much free time."

"Ha, yep. I'll believe _that_. . . . Ensign Ramius can sure pull her weight, can't she?"

John paused, turning towards the other man, eyes fixed in a glare.

"There's something about the way you said that. . . ."

Sorette grinned back, nudging a suited arm into John's gut.

"Don't worry, don't worry.—Say . . . She switches chairs with that young, sweet one, right?"

John coughed, forgetting his helmet and staring at Sorette, one eyebrow arched laughingly. "Oh? You mean the _rookie_ crewman?—Nessa Defauq?" He laughed. "Oh, come _on_, Sorette. You only know her because she puts an extra cube of sugar in your coffee everyday.—And it's because you _ask_ her to."

"And I wouldn't have it any other way. . . ." The raggy lieutenant sighed, happily sinking farther into his locker. John could only laugh some more as he went back to adjusting his flight suit. "Say—You're close to that girl, aren't you? Why don't you—"

"_No_," John cut in, forcibly ticked. "She's probably the most innocent one on board this ship as of now. And I don't want _you_ changing that, Sorette."

"Aww . . . but the innocent ones are so fun. . . ."

"Too bad she's also absolutely oblivious, hm?" He taunted, seeing his friend slide down the wall at the comment.

The pilot dressing beside them finished his work and left, slamming his locker door shut behind him. Sorette eyed the soldier who had walked out. Even though many pilots were still changing, none of them were standing as close to them anymore.

"Anthony, Anthony!" Sorette whispered, excitement flashing in his eyes as he tugged on John's arm.

"_What_?"

"I overheard the Captain talking about this battle.—If we're able to break through their flagship today, all the pilots who assisted will be up for _medals_!" That small spark lit a larger fire within John's ambered eyes.

"Really?" He growled impatiently. "Which medals?"

"I don't know.—Some Star . . . I _think_. . . ." Sorette sighed, leaning back against the lockers _again_. His voice took on the wistful tone of his sadly playing eyes. "It comes times like these when I really hate you, John Anthony."

John chuckled again, closing his own locker, sliding his helmet in the crook of his arm. "Why?"

"With a name like yours, you're going to get it _first_. . . . I wish _my_ last name started with an '_A_' . . . Instead it has to be '_Sorette_' . . . Really. What kind of name is that?" Sorette grumbled, stroking at the stubble of his chin.

"But, when it's all over, you're still going to have one on your chest," John reasoned back.

"Which is exactly why it's not bothering me _too_ much.—But, believe me when I say, Anthony, one of these days I'm going to get a decoration _before_ you do, and on that day—"

"You'll be dreaming, right?"

"Hey . . ."

"_Hey_!" A harsh voice shouted. "We're all waiting out here for you two, you know!" John and Sorette spun around. An older man, face gruff yet kind, stood in the doorway. Sorette looked wildly about the changing room.

"Whoa—When did we become the only ones in here?"

John, on the other hand, had fixed his gaze brightly on the newcomer—noticing instantly that he also wore the shared pilot's suit.

"_Sir_! . . . You're coming out with us too, Sir?"

The man grinned at the two pilots, half smile slipping onto his thin lips.

"Of course. If I'm going to get one of those medals you two were just talking about, I want to actually _do_ something today.—Now come on. Lieutenant Anthony . . . Sorette. You're holding us up."

With quick apologies, the three pilots quickly scampered from the locker area and into the Hangar. Then the three men finally parted, each going on their separate ways.

As John pushed himself off the floor to float up to his machine, his eyes caught upon a lovely little face he knew all too well hiding within the crowd of workers. Murrue. He winked at her before fastening his helmet up over his head. In his cockpit, however, John shifted in slight queasiness at the sight. _Murrue's working in the Hangar today? I surprised they didn't make her sit CIC for this battle. . . . Nessa's okay and all, but she's still a **rookie**, isn't she? Will she even be able to handle it? This is a **big** battle, I thought. Err—Murrue would be better suited for that job at the moment, Captain_. . . .

John growled to himself, yet his mumbles took no audience as he took off into the vast, starry battlefield.

---

Murrue stretched as she walked down the ship's corridor. As soon as the battle was over, she slipped from the Hangar. She needed to change into a regular uniform before going up to the Bridge. Her shift would be beginning soon.

The brunette stretched once more, a few bones cracking into relaxation.

"_Ah_! Ensign Ramius!" A mechanic she knew sprinted towards her, calling her name over again, fear and joy in his voice. "You're here, thank goodness. It's Lieutenant Anthony, Ma'am. We . . . We need your help."

"What?" Murrue paled. "What happened?"

"He came back alright, but . . . We lost some Armors today. . . .—He's gone too _far_ with it. We all thought _you_ could help before the Captain gets involved. You know his stance on soldiers who can't keep themselves in control.—If he has to get _personally_ involved . . ."

Murrue could feel the struggle for color within her cheeks. They wanted to flush in relief.—Nothing may have happened so far, but it was what was _going_ to happen that scared her white.

"But—But _me_? Why?"

"Well, Lieutenant Anthony listens to you, doesn't he?" the man smiled, eyes flashing knowingly. "You can calm him down."

With that, he led her back down the hallway that opened up to the hangar. As soon as the electronic doors had opened, Murrue knew.

"What are you, an _idiot_?" The voice roared. "You _must_ be, seeing as how nobody _sane_ could ever say _that_!—We lost _three_ pilots out there today! Weren't you paying any attention _at all_?"

"John . . ." Her fingers shaking-ly curled around her mouth as her eyes washed over the scene. Murrue made her way over to the commotion: John, already back in full uniform, was towering over a crewmember, harsh voice cracking the air.

"_Three_ of them! How do you even have the _gall_ to say that everything's _fine_ now?!"

John was shaking by then—whether from anger or something else, it was hard to say—as he counted the casualties on his fingers.

"—The _Captain_, a _first_-time _flier_, even _Sorette_ was about to be _promoted_!—"

"Lieutenant?" Murrue cut in quietly from behind him. However, he couldn't hear her. He only kept on yelling.

"How would _you_ like to be the one writing to their _families_?!

"Lieutenant Anthony?"

His hand flew to the side in rage, his elbow narrowly missing her face.

"_Hm_? Tell me, I'd like to know. Would you say, 'I'm sorry your son or husband _died_, but don't worry, everything's _fine_ now'? Well, _would_ you?"

"John Anthony," she urged from behind, trying to hold down her tone without patience as he continued to not hear her.

"Come on, _answer_ me!"

"_John_!" Murrue finally snapped, voice harsh as it escalated in the echoing Hangar.

"_What_?" He spat back, spinning around. But the moment his eyes landed upon her, he let out a gasp of recognition, arms instantly dropping to his side. "M—Ensign Ramius . . . ?"

Silence instantly deafened the Hangar, Murrue aware of every pair of eyes that were close enough to watch her. She bit at her lip, working hard on a calm, leveled voice fit for her place.

"I'm sorry, _Sir_ . . . but . . . is that sort of response truly necessary?"

The breath caught in his throat as he swallowed down any and all retort. He stood his ground, glaring back in return. Everyone could see his eyes tilt angrily at her, yet . . . only _she_ could see how the amber within them wavered weakly.

He turned in a huff and walked away, a sense of darkness following him, hanging as if perched upon his shoulder.

As everybody quickly dispersed, nothing left to see, Murrue caught a small smile from the mechanic from earlier before she, too, quickly ran from the Hangar—off to follow John.

She later found him hulled off in a small alcove, one worked into a crossroads of corridors. His back was turned to her, almost as if he didn't realize she'd followed him. He said not a word as his eyes stared blankly at a tiny dent in the wall. The dent, she knew for a _fact_, wasn't there before.

Her body went suddenly weak at the sight of him, yet she fought to bring up the strength that she needed to say the words she knew needed to be said.

"John. . . .What happened back there?" Her tone was not the calm coax one would expect. "In the Hangar . . . you lost total control, didn't you? That shouldn't happen—no matter the reason."

Murrue's voice wavered, emotion seeping its way into her voice. It pained him, even more, to hear _her_ that way.

"You're a full-blown Lieutenant now, aren't you? 'Two ranks higher than me.'—It's embarrassing for you when I tell you off. Isn't it? . . . You have _got_ to check that temper," Murrue warned. "I'm surprised it hasn't gotten you into any _real_ trouble by now."

"Oh, Murrue," he sighed, voice suddenly weak. "Can we _not_ talk about my temper? Just once?"

She blinked, voice suddenly lost by the change. He turned around to face her, those eyes of his still shaking. "Didn't you get the results of this last battle?"

Silence.

"We lost the Captain. . . ."

"Hm? Cap . . .—Oh!" Murrue covered her mouth in surprise—Eyes instantly turning down to mourn.

"The Captain" . . . John spoke about the man constantly. Though Captain only in rank, he was considered more along the lines of a 'Vice Captain' for the entire, over-manned ship. He was such a big man on-board, but Murrue knew him by face only. She barely ever spoke with the higher officer—seeing him only in the hallways, or during certain meetings. She could never have had the close relationship he and John shared. She only knew from the way John spoke all the time. Murrue could only imagine what was going through John's head as he stared back at her in the corridor.

John had wanted to mention Sorette as well, but the name never came to his direct thoughts—'The Captain' seeming to override them for the moment. John was able to calm himself to a level tone, yet with each passing word she could see the anger of before rise up once more.

"The Captain was out there piloting an Armor and got shot down. But, Murrue . . ." he growled, "What was he _doing_ out there in the first place, _hm_? We have _more_ than enough pilots on this ship—most of them still blue with inexperience. If we _had_ to lose three, couldn't we have lost some of _them_? That's what the term is, right?—'**_Rookie_** _casualties'_?"

Even through his anger in the hall, it wasn't hard to hear the high-pitched squeak come up from behind the pair. Murrue turned around, to find the young, familiar soldier standing there. The blonde was panting slightly, her usually perfect hair in shambles. She must have run straight from the Bridge as soon as the battle ended, looking for them. . . . looking for him.

With pale eyes, she stared at John, utterly fixated on his face. Her slight body was frozen in place, hands shaking as they daintily covered her mouth in 'surprise'.

The instant that John saw her, he turned his head away, suddenly quiet.

"Sorry."

Murrue turned from the man to the girl:

"Oh, is your shift over already?" She asked gently, with genuine interest. The girl pinked at the question, focus instantly shifting between the officers.

"N-no, Ma'am. _Sorry_!—Um . . . Sir."

And, with that . . . she was gone, running back up to her post on the Bridge, utterly embarrassed. Murrue watched her run off as long as she could. And when they were finally alone, she turned.

"How could you _say_ that?"

"I didn't know she was there."

"It doesn't matter if she was _there_ or not, John.—_How_ could you say that? No one deserves to hear that." Murrue fought a little to keep her voice from moving—his words striking a chord within her. She took a breath, glaring steadily into his wrenched amber eyes. "_No_ _one_."

"I . . . I wasn't thinking straight," he mumbled.

"Of course you weren't." Smile. "That's not how you think. Nothing could be farther from it, right? It's just that _temper_ of yours, John . . ."

"It's not _that_, Murrue!" John shot back, somehow dark. "—It was the **_Captain_**, don't you see?" He pleaded. "It makes no sense! He was the _best_. He was the most skilled—the most rational with experience . . . ! He should have been the _last_ one to die! _Logically . . . _!" John took a blinking breath.". . . _Logically_ . . ." Slowing down, John deflated into the steel wall of the corridor. ". . . He should have been the last one to die. . . ."

He bit back a laugh, turning his eyes into her face. "_Listen_ to me. I'm bawling like a brat, right . . . ? I'm a full-blown Lieutenant now—So, that can't _be_. Is that what you want to say? Murrue?"

No answer.

"But . . . That _man_ . . .—Back when I was a bit more naïve, I thought he was somehow immortal—invincible. He was always the one pilot who always came back without a scratch on him. And if he ever did, he would never let me see. He was always out there, even when he didn't need to be—being the back up for those . . . _rookies_ of his—and everyone else, too.

"The Captain . . . He practically gave me my _wings_, Murrue. Who out there has the right to take away _his_?"

"No one," she murmured, forcing the sound out from between her lips. Murrue could think of so much more to say, and yet none of it came to any use in the end.

In the silence, John picked at his thin hair before his attention turned to the small gathering of fuzz on his jacket. With fingers only he could tell were trembling, he brushed at his woven signs of rank.—There'd been that challenge, hadn't there?

_"Really, Sir, **listen** to me!"—"Here. I'll listen to you when I'm **forced** to listen to you, Lieutenant. Understand?" The man winked, John lighting up in newfound fervor.—"Ah, so you'll be listening to me soon enough then, Sir?"_

_"One of these days, Anthony, one of these days I'm gonna be getting a decoration before **you** do. Mark my words, Anthony."_

Then came the memory most fresh in his mind: a space-deafened explosion, sporting all the colors of life. . . .

John narrowed his eyes. "I wish this war would just end," he spat beneath his breath.

Murrue blinked, suddenly off-set by his dark muttering. "What?"

He cracked into a grin—a hateful, wry smile. He rolled his eyes, running his hand through his short hair.

"Or . . . I _wish_ I could say that . . . but I know I can't.—It's not possible, Murrue. We _can't_ end this war.—Not now, not _yet_. It's too early, isn't it? We haven't gotten to where we need to be yet. Understand?" He waited for her answer, his open eyes unable to hide that simple, excited shine.

When she nodded her answer, that shine dulled somewhat, tearing at her insides as it did so. John was a man lucky enough to still become lost within his joys, yet . . . even that saving grace seemed to fail him then.

He sighed, body shifting down even more as a slight pathetic smile tuned to his lips.

"You know what, Murrue? There are these 'experts' out there who say . . . that by the end of all this, there wont be a single person left alive who hasn't lost someone close due to this war. . . . It's scary thinking, don't you think?"

"John . . . ?"

He 'laughed.'

"But . . . if it _is_ true . . . should I then be glad?—I lost my 'someone close' early on. . . . My 'irreplaceable'. . . . Does that make me happy since, statistically, I've more than crossed that line? . . . The Captain . . . Sorette . . .—They're close, aren't they?—Irreplaceable?"

Murrue locked in her gasp at the name. _'Sorette'? That rough and raggy pilot? **Him** too?_

"_Statistically_, I'm not going to lose anybody irreplaceable anymore." He choked on a laugh. "To tell you the truth, Murrue, I think . . . I think that if I somehow lost—Um, I mean, I think that there are _several_ people who, if I was to lose _them_ . . . I don't know what I would do. . . . what would be left . . ."

He looked up into her shimmering eyes, allowing her to gaze into every layer of his own. His eyes were still wretched with pain—and a spring of guilt—but . . . glazed over it all was that sweet spark that Murrue had found to melt her inside on several occasions.

He reached down, gathering one of her thin hands in his. He brought it up to his lips, laying a soft kiss to her knuckles. He held her there, Murrue not daring to move her hand away.

His closed eyes flinched in pain before her finally let her go. But, before either had a chance to even _look_ at the other, John wrenched Murrue into a tight embrace, long arms holding her against him, their grip to never let go, it seemed.

At that moment, Murrue no longer cared about the hallway's sense of privacy. Though anybody could walk by at any moment, it didn't matter anymore . . . as they clung tight to one another.

"He's gone, Murrue," John muttered—quietly . . . painfully—into her ear, and in that one moment, his strong form turned instantly fragile, and all he could do was hold her, his forehead resting heavily on her shoulder.

Murrue returned the caring embrace, rubbing her fingers unnoticeably into his uniformed back as he stood with her. She thought back onto everything, trying to piece together any sort of response, but none were open to her. Even a soft 'I know' seemed out of the question. She _didn't_ know. So, Murrue comforted with silence.

And, in that comforting silence, Murrue's mind thought back over everything that had happened in only the past few minutes . . . everything that had been _said_ and everything that _hadn't_.

John didn't notice how she stiffened in his arms at one point—how her grip on him became slightly tighter. Murrue struggled to work on her shift in breathing, the sudden thought restricting her chest somewhat.

_Who have **I** lost?—No. . . . Who am I going to **lose**?_

----------

**PRESENT:**

Murrue stretched, unsheathing her body, pushing away the covers, as she stood up to greet the new day.

But her head ached from the most recent memory. . . .

With a sigh she rubbed at her face, feeling—quite easily—the feel of sweaty grime beneath her fingertips. _When during the night did I sweat?_ She wondered, numb. _When during the night did I even fall asleep?_ It seemed odd, now. _When did Mu leave?_

Without ever leaving her room for her pre-waking coffee, Murrue locked herself in the bathroom. From there, she slipped right into the shower—the hot, cascading water feeling too perfect on her skin.

She sighed happily, unable to hold back the pleasure the warm sensation brought.

Then the doorbell rang. It's loud sound echoed through the small house. Murrue paused in her washings.

It was John at the door. She knew it. It was probably nine o'clock sharp, as well, knowing him. She could have gotten the door. It wouldn't have been difficult—not in the least.

And yet . . .

Murrue never moved.

She closed her eyes, took a breath, and went back to lathering her body with aromatic soaps.

It wasn't exactly clear when, but she had already promised herself a day to herself. The past two had been so . . . hard? She wanted to be alone today. No, she _needed_ to be alone today.

-----

Three long knocks to the door, followed by a ringing of the bell. They resounded hollowly in her small house. And then he waited. As every second passed, John numbly felt the faint constriction of his chest.

"Hm. Guess she's busy today," he voiced aloud—to no one in particular. He couldn't hide that small tremble of his voice.

Reaching inside of his coat, John pulled out a thin pad of paper and a pen and just started to write. His chiseled hand looped across the page, gracefully scratching out words.

_Idiot,_ he spat at himself._ Why am I reacting this way? She's just not home at the moment. She'll be right back. No use getting **weak** over it._

He finished his writing—glancing at his watch to catch the time. He jotted it down in the top right hand corner of the note for referance. With a quick once over, John folded the paper in half and slid it as far into Murrue's door frame as he could manage.

Then he left—left before he could possibly rethink what he had written.

John strode down the sidewalk towards the end of the street. Even with his strong, outward gait, he could begin to feel that uneasy quease come back to the pit of him.

_Come on! Get a grip. This is **nothing** like then.—Don't be stupid. So **what** if the door didn't open when I knocked. This isn't **then**. Everything is **different**. Everything is **fine**._ John shot hotly at himself.

The bus came and stopped, opening its doors to let only John on. With a quick glance to the driver he sulked his way to the rear seats, immediately sinking down into one of them.

The anger within his face was gone—replaced by a deeply shallow realization.

_But . . . maybe . . . I never, **really,** got over that feeling. . . . . _

"Dammit," he growled quietly—shifting in his seat.

_The emptiness of an unanswered door . . . It's still too familiar for me?_

_How I never want to feel that way again._

John closed his eyes as the bus rattled its way across town. His stop was the last one, meaning it would take a while.

In the darkness behind his eyes, John could easily see every detail of that day which pounded at him. It was after _that_ battle, and it was when he was finally returning Home after repairs had been completed.

He could remember every single detail.

The stars were quite beautiful.

----------

**PAST:**

As the ship opened up to welcome him, John sighed into his helmet. He was home.

With an almost lazy ease, he brought the small Armor to rest on the hangar floor.

As he climbed out, John was surprised by the crowd gathered to meet him . . . and the four soldiers holding him at gunpoint at the front. Military procedure of course—they needed to make sure he was who he said he was. Grinning, he pulled off his restrictive helmet, showing all his handsome face.

Seeing the previous Commander, the gunmen faltered, the rest stood shocked . . . until _she_ pushed through all their ranks.

"John!" She cried, running up then jumping into his arms, threatening to topple him over. "You're alive!" she sobbed happily into his shoulder, crushing herself into him.

He couldn't hold back that warm smile as his fingers brushed down her soft, blonde hair.

"Nessa, Nessa," he coaxed, ". . . Since when did you become such a crybaby?"

He grinned. Sure she was young, and one of the newest to being a soldier, but . . . he'd always known the sweet Bridge girl to be . . . stubbornly stronger than that. In all the time she'd hung around him, he'd never seen her anything other than oddly happy. The change was different—and oddly heart-stirring.

The crew that hadn't already left the scene kept watching them—faces oddly solemn.

But Nessa couldn't help it—her tears soaking into his flight suit as she buried her face there with all her strength.

"John . . . you're really . . . here," she choked. ". . . I . . ."

"It's okay," he laughed, gently holding her in return.

"_No_! You don't _understand_!" She shot back, staring up into his eyes—pale gray glittering painfully as she shook at him. "John, when you didn't come back . . . we all thought—!" She bit her lip, unable to say it. Her tears still spilled. "—Murrue thought . . ."

"_Murrue_," John repeated numbly, realizing at that moment which face it was he hadn't seen.

Nessa gripped his shoulders so tightly he could feel the ridges of her nails through the thick material. She stared up, face pale, eyes wide. She whispered:

"_She doesn't know. . ._ ."

John cocked his head, dark eyes muddy with sudden confusion. He looked at the girl for answers.

"What? What do you mean 'she doesn't know'? What doesn't she know, Nessa?" He was somehow smiling, still half-oblivious.

"The Lieutenant doesn't _know_ . . . that you're _alive_. She left before we found out . . . ! She's gone.—She _still_ thinks that y—!"

He pulled the girl from him, hands squaring on her thin shoulders as he looked straight into her tear-streaked face. His earlier smile had been darkly replaced.

"'Gone' . . . ? What do you mean by 'gone'?"

She painfully answered, obedient, but breathless.

". . . _Gone_, John. During the battle we . . . we took in some Admiral or General or something, and when he left . . . he _took_ her.—_And_ Ensign Brian. They left yesterday. Murrue still thinks you're—"

His hands loosened their grip on her, but he didn't notice.

". . . 'Gone'. . . ?" It rolled unnaturally off his tongue. That one word resounded within him, chilling with each passing echo.

Eyes not able to see the beautiful soldier clinging to him, John pushed her away without another thought . . . She was only an obstacle in his path, after all.

Still in full gear, not thinking of the time it took to change, John, brusque as ever, took from the Hangar. With every slow step down the hallway . . . his pace quickened, until finally, he found himself at a full-run.

Nessa stood alone in the Hangar, stunned from being so _easily_ cast-aside. She couldn't stop the blank tears from falling . . . except now, she couldn't tell whether they fell from joy or pain.

The rest of the crew who'd stayed to watch had quietly dispersed then, seeing all they'd needed to see, some shaking their heads.

Suddenly truly alone, she cried into her hands.

---

John panted as he rushed through the ship's hallways. His heart had begun to beat so fast, it made his head ache, the sound heard so loud in his brain. He dimly remembered passing some crewmembers on his way, but he paid them little thought as they gawked at him go past.

He had reached it, though—the splitting pain in his knee nothing as he gasped for air. He punched in the numbers that opened the door, and, somehow in his frenzy, he got them all right.

The metal door slid open. He rushed into the room.

"Murrue!" He called out, oddly frantic.

He froze, though, when the sight he saw connected in his mind.

It was empty. Completely, utterly empty.

He spun around.

Bed stripped . . . Dust cleaned . . . Cabinet bare. _Nothing_.

It couldn't _be_.—He _must_'ve gone into the wrong quarters by accident. There was no way. That place he'd spent so much of his time in, this couldn't have been it. That place . . . it had this warmth that never left because it had always been graced by her. But here, all that was left of that comfort was . . . _Nothing_.

He slunk down onto the bed, mind buzzing-ly numb, defeated and weak.

What was his problem?

It wasn't like she was _dead_ or anything. It wasn't anything _permanent_. He could easily see her again. He could easily get her transferred back. . . . But he could easily not.

And that scared him.

----------

**PRESENT:**

Dragging himself off the old bus, John shook at his head, trying desperately to clear it but failing. He looked up at the small hotel of his and sighed, pushing his way on through, all the way up to his rented room.

He yawned, amazed at how tired his body felt. Before, he'd been so full of energy. What had changed? Now, he didn't feel up to doing _anything._ . . .

John collapsed back into the bed, but couldn't sleep. It was lunchtime, yet he didn't feel like eating. It was easy to do some of his simple work, yet he didn't even feel like moving in the end. He could only look up at the ceiling instead, the old memory haunting his headache.

"But . . . What's the use in thinking about any of that now?" He wondered aloud—shifting over on his bed.

-----

Murrue slid across her tiny house, gracefully drifting from room to room. Her thin fingers checked the state of her robe as she walked. A bit too long and a bit too big for her, the surrounding fluffy comfort almost buried her within its folds—yet, she still wore it. Wet hair done up to keep away from her face, Murrue looked in the large mirror for answers.

With everything like it was, bath-robe and all . . . she looked oddly presentable . . . and even more different.

The mail must have come by then—for she had taken so long in the shower—and for her to open the front door to get it . . . who knows who could be outside.

Shaking the thought from her mind, Murrue went to open the door.

But she glanced back, eyes, landing on the telephone.

He still hadn't called, had he . . . ?

She quickly pushed that thought from her mind, wrenching the door open instead. And, as she pulled it open, a thin paper floated down, dancing in the air until it landed upon the stoop.

Murrue stared at it—breath automatically catching in her chest. How long had it been? How long had it been since she saw that thin, loopy calligraphy? It was such an improvement on Mu's messy scrawl, she even found herself laughing gently at the idea as she bent to pick it up.

Fingers flicking the folded note open, her eyes dashed across the page. With its words her hands shook with the slightest movements. When she had reached the end, the note closed, gripped tightly in her hand.

Even though no one was physically _there_, Murrue lost her day 'of peace' alone.

"John . . ."

----------

**PAST?**

It was dark in the closed quarters. John lay in his bed, thinking back lightly on all the noise and commotion probably happening at that moment, right beyond his door. In all the time he'd been on the ship, he'd never known it to be calm in any way.

But here, now, this moment . . . he had his peace. Eyes dashing about in the night, all he could see was Murrue's soft form curled up beside his, her lush hair tickling his nose. She never moved in his arms, but he knew she was asleep—the steady rise and fall of her breathing told him so.

_Murrue . . ._ he sighed, shifting closer in the still dark. He whispered to her ear, quiet, knowing she wouldn't hear. But, at his words, the sound of her breathing stopped for the moment. John blinked, oddly amused. _So, she wasn't asleep after all. . . ._

His breathless mutter, a lone warmth in the dark:

"I love you."

Too simple to not be beautiful.

* * *

**A/N: **Get through it all okay? Maybe, and this is a real _maybe_, I might find out a way to smooth this all out later. Maybe if I read this chapter a month or two from now, it'll all click together? Hm? 

Gah, John is hard to write at times, this chapter being no exception. (And I'm not saying that he's based off anyone in particular, but I keep seeing certain traits of his coming out in some people I know.) But, I still had fun with this, I guess, this 'background.' I loved writing the scene where he comes back and "Nessa" is crying so much . . . I had to draw it, actually. (Weird?) And, oddly, through all my thoughts on the subject, I've come to love the bitter "relationship" between John and Nessa.—too bad I can't write it more. . . .

Ah! Since you finally got through a chapter with 'no' Mu in it. . . I'll give you a hint to what's happening in the next chapter. "Mu." Yep, you guessed it. _No_ John in it at all. (grin)--Ah, but dont think that's the end of it. Nope! I'm surprised that I have so much left of this to go . . .


End file.
